


i'm your undertow

by songbirdsandsnokes



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Inappropriate Use of the Force, a songbirds and snakes-inspired hunger games au, all your favorite characters but they show up one by one, and of course it had to be, angst ensues, but only on rey's end because kylo falls in love immediately, go go go who's next, it turns out poe as finnick odair was something i needed, it's sad in quar y'all, jj abrams in jail headcanon, rey and kylo renjamin are both 18, rey palpatine? i pretend i do not see it, rey skywalker? also no, smut but make it tender, this was originally a one-shot but now it's all I think about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24706171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songbirdsandsnokes/pseuds/songbirdsandsnokes
Summary: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes came to me in a dream and said, "please let me serve as the inspiration for a Reylo Hunger Games AU," and I said say no more fam=====Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the sandstorm ceased. The camera stopped shaking in the wind and was able to focus on the crowd. As the last grains of sand fell away from the lens, the tribute—Kylo’s tribute—finally came into view.She was hard to miss. The crowd around her had all hunkered down instinctively at the onset of the sandstorm, creating a heap of sand-colored bodies that began to stir when the winds stopped. But the tribute remained standing and had apparently been standing throughout the storm. She jutted out of the huddled masses around her like a lightning rod—and, indeed, she might well have been wishing for the storm to sweep her away.But instead she stood, facing the cameras. And in one swift, well-practiced movement, she removed her googles and hood.
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Rey, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> [](https://ibb.co/PrKrcCg)  
> 
> 
> WELL I can’t believe I’m saying or doing or writing this, but quarantine has turned me from Reylo trash to a full on swamp rat with too much free time on her hands, and when I read A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes I knew I had to do it to ‘em. It was just begging to become a Reylo AU, right? This fic is the premise of Hunger Games taking place in a galaxy far, far away, featuring lots of the sequel characters we know and love as angsty teenagers fighting to the death for added drama.
> 
> Speaking of characters… the character list and tags list are pretty short right now since I'm still thinking through who exactly will be joining us on this wild ride and how big their role will be, but keep an eye on both fields for updates.
> 
> Lastly… go easy on me… I've been writing in little spurts forever, but this is the first real swath of time I've had in quite a while, so this is the first actual fic I've published. Feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> **Content Warnings for This Fic**  
> 
> 
> Unless otherwise specified, these will apply to this and all following chapters. There will be individual CWs for each chapter, but these will carry through!
> 
>  **Graphic depictions of violence and violence against children**. The basis of this story is The Hunger Games so there is discussion about children dying and killing, and if that's not for you, I would pass on this fic! I'll also add that I'm a medical student, so I have absolutely no filter anymore when it comes to knowing what's considered gross so I'm sorry for that in advance and I'll do my best to tag anything really gnarly.
> 
>  **Explicit language**. Our main characters are angsty teenagers and swear a lot because they don't know how to express themselves otherwise
> 
>  **Graphic depictions of consensual sex**. Listen... I started this out of boredom as a smutty one-shot but then I got carried away and now there's a plot and character development but that doesn't mean they can't still bang!!! In particularly steamy chapters I'll give more specific content warnings, but in my head and heart Benjamin Solo is vanilla soft serve so there won't be anything crazy.
> 
>  **Manipulation and (non-sexual) abuse of main characters**. This is moreso in reference to Kylo and his relationship with Snoke-- I'll be approaching the Reylo dynamic from a different angle.
> 
>  **Here be Reylo**. It's not everybody's cup of tea, so turn back now if you don't want me to pour you up a hot mug of soft space nerds.
> 
> **Content Warnings for This Chapter**  
> 
> 
> Nothing to add to what's mentioned above!

I.

Anger was a feeling all too familiar to Kylo Ren. He could tell from the hot swell in his chest when it was about to come on in full force, and he knew that when it did, he lost his chokehold on the Force, which only made him angrier. But, like the Force, he could channel anger. He could bend it to his will, like the workers who forged his weapons with molten metals. And once it was solidified, he could release it in a mighty burst back into the world around him in a way that made him feel superhuman. He could breathe fire when the swell of heat in his chest reached the back of his throat. He could cut down anyone within a five-foot radius when he had his saber in his hand. He could kill.

But not today. Not now.

Not on live holovision.

It was difficult, but not impossible. Although Snoke encouraged his anger at every point in his training—goaded him on, even—he’d learned through the years to snuff out the first flickers of rage before his whole being erupted into flame. It was one of the many things that made him more powerful than his classmates, and one of the reasons why he’d been admitted to the Knights of Ren his very first year at the Academy.

Which just made this whole situation that much more insulting.

Nevertheless, when the cameras panned to his seat at the end of the aisle and FE-74 read his tribute assignment from the list projected onto the stage, Kylo managed a nod and a polite smile. At least, he hoped it was a smile.

“And there you have it, folks,” FE-74 was saying, “the Academy’s best and brightest who will be mentoring this year’s tributes. Those First Order citizens who are interested in submitting bets before the Reaping are encouraged to do so before transmissions close at eight tomorrow morning. Bear in mind that with greater risk comes greater gain, so those placing early bets will be rewarded at a premium…”

Kylo’s calm façade could only hold up for so long, and FE-74’s relentlessly upbeat voice was certainly not helping him maintain his cool. Instead, he turned inward and allowed himself to seethe.

The tribute from _Jakku_. And not only that, but the _girl_.

Like most poor planets, Jakku ended up in the Reaping pool with suspicious frequency given the number of other eligible planets in Sector 12, but despite its many chances, it had never once produced a victor. This was not particularly surprising, given that the pool of tributes young enough for the Jakku Reaping mainly consisted of the diminutive Teedo, oafish Crolute and Hutt, and wayward human children who subsisted off of stolen survival rations. The Jakkuvians also seemed to be keenly aware of their home planet’s repeated misfortune in the yearly “random” lottery, meaning that their tributes had a reputation of being surly and untrainable.

So, without even meeting her, Kylo knew three things about his tribute: she was going to refuse his training; she was going to make him look bad in front of the entire First Order; and she was going to be dead in the first 24 hours.

If he wanted to make it big after graduation, if he wanted to live up to his reputation as a Knight of Ren and rise through the ranks of the First Order, if he wanted to walk through the hallways of Starkiller Base and be able to look his classmates in the eyes… he needed a star of a tribute. And he certainly hadn’t gotten one.

All he could think about was Phasma’s smug grin when she learned she was assigned to the male tribute from Mimban. And how Torben and Barrut had high-fived when they were announced as the mentors to Kashyyyk. The only saving grace was that Hux, who possessed a poorly concealed fear of tentacles, had been assigned to the aquatic planet of Mon Cala. 

“It could be worse,” Siv sighed, jerking Kylo out of his headspace. She had been assigned the male tribute from Jakku.

“No, it couldn’t,” Kylo snapped. He had nothing against Siv—in fact, he found her much more tolerable than the rest of his classmates, even his fellow Knights of Ren—but he was in no mood for cheering up.

She had nothing to say to this. Any tribute from Jakku, male or female, was as good as dead the second their name was drawn at the Reaping ceremony.

Kylo sensed the cameras had panned back to the students and forced himself to look pleasant. The audience behind them was clapping but he’d missed whatever prompted the applause.

Judging from the shuffle of classmates around him, the audience was celebrating the fact that the show was over. He stood, hands clasped in front of him, politely avoiding eye contact with the cameras as he waited for his classmates to file out of the row in front of him. They had to be moving at less than a glacial pace. Finally, he fell in line behind Siv and made his exit, perhaps a bit too close on her heels.

They were free until the Reaping tomorrow morning. Many of his classmates were heading toward the cantina to debrief, talking in hushed, excited tones about their good fortune and their predictions for the Games. No one was paying any attention to him—or expecting him to join them, for that matter—but he made his retreat back to his quarters stealthy, nonetheless. It felt like bad optics to draw attention to his sulking.

He made sure he heard the lock click behind him before he threw himself facedown onto his bed.

Just yesterday, he had been an eighteen-year-old with the whole world in front of him. Head of his class and Master of the Knights of Ren, he was poised to graduate and fly up the ranks of the First Order leadership to become Supreme Leader Snoke’s second-in-command. _There is greatness within you_ , Snoke had been saying since he was a boy. And there was, he felt it—a deep swell of dark power blooming inside of him as he grew, forging a bond between him and the spirit of his grandfather before him. He had so much potential. So much to give.

But now… a tribute from Jakku. He imagined his tribute being gunned down the second she stepped off her pedestal, his dreams falling with her. When a student’s tribute died, they were no longer invited to Games-related events. Not given a chance to rub elbows with First Order elite at cocktail parties or negotiate at the betting stands. Not expected to appear for holovision interviews or receive media coverage of any kind. If there was greatness within him, this was his last chance to make sure everyone saw it on a public scale. And it was all but destroyed.

⁂

Kylo gave into the urge to feel sorry for himself all through dinner hour, but by eight o’clock he had already been standing in the training bay for five minutes, cloak freshly starched, waiting for the Knights of Ren to assemble.

As the only Knight in the graduating class, Kylo was the de facto Master, but he made sure to lead the group as if he had earned the title. As if it was something he could lose.

“You’re late,” he hissed as Ap’lek shuffled into line at 8:02. The voice filter on Kylo’s helmet gave his admonition an impressive threatening undertone.

“Sorry, Master.” 

Cardo, Trudgen, and Kuruk, who had arrived before Kylo himself, shot disapproving glances at their fellow trainee.

“Congratulations on your assignment, Master,” said Ushar.

Kylo stiffened. In terms of Academy etiquette, this was undoubtedly the right thing to say—it was an honor to be chosen to mentor in the first place—but coming from Ushar it felt more like mockery. He was glad the Knights couldn’t see his face.

“It will do,” he replied. “There’s no satisfaction in anything accomplished without a challenge.”

That seemed to shut Ushar up well enough.

“We’re practicing with sabers tonight,” he continued.

A few eyebrows raised. Friday nights like these were usually reserved for more cerebral forms of training; they practiced combat Tuesdays and Thursdays, and even then, rarely with real weapons.

He opened his mouth and allowed the rest of his idea to unfurl as he spoke. “Tomorrow morning, twenty-four of the galaxy’s young will be chosen to fight to the death. Some of them have been training for years, but most will enter that arena never having held a weapon in their life. And they’ll kill the first time they hold one. Are they braver than you?”

“No, Master,” the Knights said in unison.

“Are they stronger than you?”

“No, Master.”

“That’s what I thought. Prove it to me.”

The boys dutifully broke into pairs and began to spar, but with noticeably less gusto than normal. Cardo jumped when his own saber _whooshed_ too close to his ear. Kuruk, having forgotten gloves, singed his hand on the hilt. Vicrul lunged and parried with such painful predictability that Trudgen barely had to move to block his opponent’s blows.

To be Force-sensitive was a requirement of membership in the Knights, but few of the recruits had honed their skill with the Force well enough to prefer the lightsaber over their usual metal blades and clubs. They were _afraid_ of their sabers, not one with them. These boys did not feel the Force surge through them when their hands came in contact with the hilt. Not like Kylo Ren.

“Enough,” Kylo interrupted.

There was a chorus of _hums_ as the sabers extinguished.

“Suppose it’s you all in the dome at the end of this month. Suppose the first cannon sounds and the Games begin. What do you do?”

“Gather the best weapons,” suggested Vicrul. To run straight into the mouth of the beast and arm yourself immediately was a move that required an absurd amount of speed and self-confidence and was therefore usually employed only by tributes who had been training for the Games their whole lives— or who were remarkably stupid. The tributes who survived the ensuing bloodbath had the highest likelihood of winning the Games, historically, and were quick to gain sponsorship in reward for their daring.

“Good. What do you take?”

The Knights stared at their feet. They knew what the answer was, and they also knew how Kylo would respond.

Ushar broke the silence. “The saber.”

Each year, there was a single saber placed in the cornucopia along with the more plentiful array of knives, survival gear, and ammunition. Each year, a big-headed tribute laid claim to it and each year it was their downfall. The most notable failure had been the Games four years ago, when the male tribute from Arbra’s saber ignited in his waistband when he bumped into a tree, puncturing his neck and resulting in an immediate cannon blast, signaling his death. Others simply lacked the unity with the Force needed to wield it and found it to be a poor defense against their competitors.

Ushar had said what Kylo had wanted them to say. “And do you think you’ll fare any better with it than any other tribute has?”

“No, Master.” This time, the reply was unanimous; the answer, obvious.

“No, you won’t,” he repeated, satisfied. “You don’t deserve it. You follow the Ren but you do not feel it. You can sense the Force but you cannot use it. You’re still learning, but at this rate, it’s too slow for the First Order.”

There had long been an unspoken understanding that the Knights of Ren were awarded certain privileges in the First Order upon graduation in return for their military service. No doubt these fools would receive the same privileges regardless of their actual performance, but Kylo figured he might as well give them something to fight for.

“Make a circle around me,” he commanded. The boys did as they were told. “Now ignite your sabers. Try to strike me.”

They eyed him suspiciously, but Kylo knew for a fact his gang of power-hungry brutes would like nothing more than to shave an ear or a fingertip off of the cocky upperclassman who’d been making their lives a living hell all year.

“Go on,” he encouraged. He waited to ignite his own saber after all of his students had ignited theirs, just in case the sight of it made them reconsider.

Keeping in character, Ushar was the first to lunge at him. He gave swipe with good strength behind it, but that Kylo easily swatted away.

“I knew what you were going to do before you did it. Your face gave it away.” As did reaching into his mind for a quick peek, but there was nothing constructive to come from telling him that.

Ushar glowered and resumed his fighting stance for his next opportunity.

Trudgen made the next move, attempting to undercut Kylo from his left. Kylo spun on his heel and deflected, all the while keeping his saber in his right hand.

“Good. Next time, with your other hand. You need to be proficient with both hands _and_ you need to be fast, not just one.”

Cunning Ap’lek was the first to come at him from behind, which Kylo sensed in just enough time to swing his saber behind his back in defense.

“When you’re tapped into the Force, you cannot use blind spots as an excuse. You are not blind.” The words flowed from him like music. Although they were lessons all of the boys had heard before, Kylo was pleased with how he was able to mold them into new shapes, making them memorable for his trainees.

Even if his tribute died in the first two minutes of the games, no could ever claim he had poor mentorship skills.

The assault continued, the Knights growing more daring with their attacks when it became apparent that they were not going to land a blow on Kylo without considerable effort. But he would not let them. They came at him from all directions and in packs of two and three, but still he could sense their every move, still he could evade their best traps, still he saw through every feint. Over time, the mood of the Knights changed from steadfast determination to give Kylo a good gash, to frustration that their mentor was just using this exercise as an excuse to show off, to plain exhaustion.

Kylo, on the other hand, felt himself grow more powerful each time his saber connected with another. The Force swirled inside of him like an angry sea, and he let it out in controlled bursts with every counterattack. Even when his arms began to ache and his head began to spin from changing direction so quickly, he felt mighty. Self-assured. In control. If he were not a loyal citizen of the First Order and therefore ineligible for the Reaping, he knew that he could cut all twenty-three of his competitors down in a flash were he ever to set foot in the arena. He only stopped when the lights on the training deck went out, as they were programmed to when the clock struck 11pm.

One by one, the glowing blades of his trainees’ lightsabers disappeared into blackness, leaving his red blade and its crossguards the only source of light.

“Go get some sleep,” he said, and the Knights shuffled away, muttering about how they had been unable to disturb even a single hair on Kylo’s head.

And then he was alone again, him and the Force and the quavering hum of his saber, dreading what the coming morning was to bring.

⁂

For most of the galaxy, and especially for the planets that had dared to align themselves with the New Republic and whose children were wont to be sacrificed as punishment, the day of the Reaping was a somber affair. It was the day when the next batch of twenty-four youth would be selected to fight to the death, a horrific but effective display of the First Order’s power.

Not so on Starkiller Base.

If Kylo had not already been up before dawn, unable to sleep, the sounds of his classmates’ merriment beyond the doors to his quarters would have surely woken him. He was pacing around, already fully dressed in robes he’d decided on days beforehand, but feeling unduly exposed without his mask. The mentors had been banned from wearing masks to any Games-related event so that they might appear more personable on camera.

He waited until the voices outside had died down some before emerging from his room, not wanting to seem too eager. This strategy, however, only served to place him face-to-face with Phasma. And “face-to-face” was an apt description, since she was the only student in the Academy who even came close to his height.

“Solo,” she acknowledged him with a sneer.

Kylo felt his hand clench into a fist at his side. Since Kylo, like his classmates, had come to the Academy as a child, there had not been a chance to keep his noble birth a secret—anyone could have guessed, anyway, based on his natural ease with the Force—but Snoke had worked long and hard with all of his students to make sure that their only identity would be shaped by him, their only allegiance to the First Order. He had been so young when he was taken and had served the Supreme Leader so dutifully that he had only the slightest fragment of a memory of his parents. More likely than not, a mixture of Snoke’s mind tricks and the First Order’s advanced tech had played a role in this forgetfulness, but it was not something he was particularly keen on overcoming. His parents were traitors—Snoke had told him enough about them to make that clear—and he didn’t want to be associated with them. He might be the son of rebels, but he, Kylo Ren, was as loyal to the First Order as anyone. After eighteen years, he had successfully shed every association to his parents.

Except for this abominable nickname that he could not seem to shake.

“Phasma,” he said stiffly, and the two classmates fell into step alongside each other. From his vague recollection of Phasma’s past, she didn’t have much to be proud of, either, but nothing easily lent itself to a nickname.

“You’re a bit overdressed for Jakku.”

Kylo felt rage building within him, but he couldn’t exactly go off on her outside of the great hall, in front of all their classmates and several dozen camera crews. “I wasn’t aware we had to dress like our tributes. But I applaud your dedication to the culture of Mimban. You really do look like you crawled right out of the swamp this morning. Inspiring.”

Phasma smiled the galaxy’s least convincing smile as they passed in front of camera crew number one. “And I’ll stay dedicated, all throughout the Games. But you don’t need to worry about that, seeing as how you won’t make it past the first day.”

Kylo gave a polite nod to camera crew number three, held up a hand in greeting to number four. “At least I don’t need a winning tribute to prove myself to Snoke.”

This wasn’t entirely true. Having a successful mentorship—or, even better, a winning tribute—was a boon to any Academy student and basically guaranteed employment in the First Order leadership. Graduating as a Knight of Ren awarded him some of these privileges, but the Knights had a reputation of being elite combat soldiers rather than strategists and intellectuals. Kylo wanted Snoke to regard him as both.

Despite its questionable veracity, Kylo’s comment had the intended effect. He could almost see steam coming out of Phasma’s ears as her pale face reddened and her brow furrowed. She had never been one of Snoke’s favorite students, nor had she qualified for the Knights of Ren as an underclassman, even though she was one of the best fighters in their year. The generally accepted reason was that she was not strong with the Force, but she claimed her entry was denied because the Knights were an old boy’s club. He’d hit her where it hurt.

The doors of the great hall hissed open in front of Kylo and Phasma, and they immediately headed for opposite sides of the room. 

One of the many positives of being at Starkiller Base on the day of the Reaping, besides not having to worry about being selected to fight to the death, was the food. Most days the students at the Academy were fed like the stormtroopers with Bespin breakfast bars in the morning and polystarch puff bread and veg-meat for lunch and dinner, leaving the cooks free to fix proper dishes for Snoke and the upper leadership. But with the galaxy’s eyes inside the Starkiller Base and its citizens being holo-cast far and wide, the First Order had to put on a show.

At the sight of the display in front of him, Kylo’s stomach began to rumble, reminding him of last night’s foregone dinner. He took a seat next to Siv again—maybe today he would allow her to commiserate with him—and sat with the feeling for a few moments.

Hunger was a crude sensation. Unlike anger, it could not be channeled or controlled. It was an all-encompassing yearn, punctuated by bodily pangs nothing else could replicate. It dulled the senses, yet sharpened the primitive part of his brain that even the Force could not easily quash. He thought of the tributes who were not killed in the arena by their competitors, but rather starved to death. He thought he understood how hunger could drive you to kill.

Kylo snapped out of his musings when Siv tapped him on the shoulder and passed him a platter of Iktotch toast, dripping with bantha butter and carbosyrup and powdered with Christophsian sugar as if they weren’t sweet enough to begin with. He gave into his hunger, but soon wished he had started with lighter fare, so that he might have room to sample all of the platters flying around the excited Academy students: nilluk strips seared just right; eggs of every kind of creature cooked every which way; smoked terrafin loin on millgrain toast. The only menu item he passed on was the Chandrilan tea, for which he had never acquired much of a taste.

The mentors were so focused on their hot meal that barely anyone was talking. Kylo was grateful. He was in no mood to fake goodwill to his classmates. As the minutes to the live broadcast of the Reaping ceremonies across the galaxy ticked away, it was apparent that whatever was left of the morning’s excitement had been cleared away with their breakfast plates.

FE-74, the peppy little droid who had been the most tolerable part of the Games since her introduction, wheeled herself up onto the stage at the front of the great hall and delivered some opening remarks. The room fell quiet, and all eyes turned to Enric Pryde, the mentor whose tribute would be announced first.

“As always, we travel first to the Outer Rim. This year, we’ve only two planets to visit here, so they’ll be sure to stick in our minds!” FE-74 chirped. “First up, our female tribute from Utapau. Switching over to live feed from Utapau now!”

Pryde’s resting face made him look sullen at best, but now his frown had somehow nestled its way further into his face. To be assigned the female tribute from Utapau was not a high honor by any means, but Pryde had hardly met the requirements to become a mentor in the first place. He ought to be more thankful, Kylo thought. 

The holoscreen in the front of the great hall flickered briefly before showing a panoramic shot of Utapau, rocky and miserable as ever, and speckled with massive sinkholes to boot.

“Paradise,” snorted Kanida, who was sitting next to Pryde. He shot her a deadly glare.

And thus began the Reaping. Pryde seemed to relax when his tribute turned out to be an austere Pau’an draped in the adornments of high birth. Since Pau’ans could live up to 700 years, their pool of “younglings” contained plenty of well-trained competitors. The Pau’an’s counterpart, assigned to Goneril, was a rather rotund Utai. To her credit, Goneril did a good job of looking grateful when the cameras cut to her face at the mentor table.

Then it was on to Mon Cala, where Hux turned green when he saw the Quarren female he’d been assigned to, and to the mid rim planets, beginning with the peaceful Lantillian shipbuilders to be mentored by Opan and Bolander. Garan and Carr got cocky the second they saw the pair of Lanniks that were reaped from their planet, whereas Torben and Barrut put on a better show of humility when two Wookiees were chosen from Kashyyk. Hask expressed hope that the arena would be aquatic this year when he saw his Gungan tribute from Naboo, while Gosta, his partner who’d been presented with a human boy who didn’t look a day over ten, rolled her eyes.

The sixth planet marked the halfway point of the Reaping ceremony, and incidentally fed Phasma and Griss unearned attention as FE-74 spun in excited circles and announced that the final countdown was upon them. Mimban was the only planet in the Expansion Region this year of the Games, so it was also the last stop before the Reaping began in the planets of the Inner Rim and Galactic Core, whose societies were higher developed and whose tributes were more likely to win.

With the exception, of course, of little Jakku in the Western Reaches. Kylo remembered getting marked down on an assignment in astrocartography where he’d mistakenly referred to Jakku as a planet of the Outer Rim. It just seemed to fit better in with the likes of Tatooine and Nal Hutta.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed FE-74, and Kylo was forced to feed into Phasma’s spotlight.

The Reaping of the male tribute from Mimban had produced a Coway who stood about a foot taller than the rest of his kin. Like all Coway, he was a formidable sight to behold with gaping black eyelids and a skin covered in bright red down. Unlike all Coway, he was wearing a necklace bearing the teeth of some, surely massive, creature, which only added to the effect. He had even managed to impress FE, who had truly seen it all before.

Phasma positively beamed from ear to ear.

_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me_ , thought Kylo. 

Griss’s tribute, a scrawny human who was inexplicably soaking wet, looked like she was about to pass out when the Coway joined her on stage.

“That’s D’ovite, male tribute from Mimban,” Phasma was saying to the camera, already milking her good luck for all it was worth. “And my name is Phasma, graduating senior of the Academy. Do keep an eye on us during training!”

Much to Kylo’s relief, FE had a strict timetable to adhere to, and cut Phasma off before she could brag any longer. The relief, however, was short lived. It was now time for the Reaping on Jakku to begin.

“My, well, isn’t that fitting!” exclaimed FE as the holoscreen feed switched from Mimban to Jakku.

In true Jakkuvian fashion, the beginnings of a sandstorm were stirring. High winds whipped the camera-operating droids to and fro, and gusts of sand prevented them from keeping any sort of focus on the crowd of youth gathered for the ceremony.

Laughter erupted inside of the great hall. Kylo wanted to crawl under the table.

What was apparently the steadiest camera on hand zoomed in on the makeshift stage that had been erected in front of the crowd. The little droid assigned to call the names of the reaped could barely be heard between the snap of the wind and the static of the First Order tech struggling to acclimate to the desert. Kylo could only make out every few words.

“In respect of… _ssssssk_ … these Games and those before them… _ssssssk_ … begin by drawing the name of the female tribute… _ssssssk_ …”

The screen switched to a view of the Jakkuvian young, huddled together against the raging winds. The sand had really begun to pick up, and it was impossible to distinguish where one figure ended and another began.

Someone had apparently made the call to use the audio feed directly from the droid’s mic as voiceover for this shot, because the words suddenly became much clearer.

“Without further ado,” the droid was saying, “your female tribute from Jakku will be…”

There was some attempt at a drumroll, which could only be distinguished as a distorted rumble coming from the droid’s mic.

“… _ssssssk_!”

With one final burst of horrendous feedback, the droid’s mic cut out entirely, and the camera searched the crowd in silence for the tribute whose name had been called. It may well have succeeded, but all that was visible on the screen in the great hall was a furious flurry of sand. The incomprehensible visual without any sort of audio element made for an unexpectedly dramatic moment. The patrons of the great hall had gone quiet. Kylo realized he was holding his breath.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the sandstorm ceased. The camera stopped shaking in the wind and was able to focus on the crowd. As the last grains of sand fell away from the lens, the tribute—Kylo’s tribute—finally came into view.

She was hard to miss. The crowd around her had all hunkered down instinctively at the onset of the sandstorm, creating a heap of sand-colored bodies that began to stir when the winds stopped. But the tribute remained standing and had apparently _been_ standing throughout the storm. She jutted out of the huddled masses around her like a lightning rod—and, indeed, she might well have been wishing for the storm to sweep her away.

But instead she stood, facing the cameras. And in one swift, well-practiced movement, she removed her googles and hood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In Re: Canon**  
>  If you’re familiar with THG you’ll realize that I’ve played with some of the timelines of things and it’s not exactly how history went down in Panem, but the basic rules of the Games are still in play unless otherwise specified. I feel like it's also worth mentioning that while this fic was inspired by The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes specifically, the plot of this won't give away much about the books if you haven't read them yet.
> 
> Similarly, while the SW content is mostly based in sequel trilogy canon, you'll notice plenty of characters have been aged up or down and a lot of the background detail came from Legends/ST companion books, so some elements might be slightly contradictory. In the case of both THG and SW, please feel free to point out any inconsistencies—I’m by no means an expert in either so I’d love to learn from my mistakes and learn more about either universe in the meantime!
> 
>  **SW References**  
>  Most of Kylo's classmates are [Officers of the First Order](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Category:Officers_of_the_First_Order), the other names (because there weren't enough women smh) appear in [. ](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Star_Wars:_Captain_Phasma%22>Phasma)[The Knights of Ren](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Knights_of_Ren) are actually an old boys club, justice for Phasma  
> All of the planets mentioned are [those that aligned themselves with the New Republic](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Category:New_Republic-aligned_planets). Only those with [sentient](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Sentience) inhabitants were eligible to be reaped, otherwise that wouldn't be humane (then again, nothing about the Games is humane).  
> Since the First Order is a conglomerate culture of many parts of the galaxy, their [food menu](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Category:Breakfast_foods) is similarly diverse.
> 
>  **THG References**  
> [The Reaping](https://thehungergames.fandom.com/wiki/The_Reaping) .  
> FE-74 is a loving reference to miss [Effie Trinket](https://thehungergames.fandom.com/wiki/Effie_Trinket), and the fact that the HG trilogy began with the [74th Hunger Games](https://thehungergames.fandom.com/wiki/74th_Hunger_Games).
> 
> The title is from a lyric in Meltdown on the Mockingjay Part 1 soundtrack, delivered unto us by the incomparable HAIM.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I saw a Father's Day card featuring Han and Chewie in the Falcon but there was no mention of Ben anywhere and I think that should be illegal? Anyway here's chapter 2!
> 
>  **Content Warning for this Chapter**  
>  Mention of dry heaving (unrelated to eating disorders); to avoid, skip the block of lines in italics.  
> Mentions of blood, lightsaber wounds, starvation, dehydration, Force-related loss of consciousness... it's rough out there in the SW-verse. I'm going to stop tagging this stuff after this chapter because it's all pretty standard fare from here on out. Turn back now if needed!

II.

The First Order camera crews were itching to get out of Jakku before another sandstorm began, so the little droid on the stage was instructed to draw Siv’s tribute’s name without any fanfare.

“Strunk,” it called, and there was a quick pan to the audience where a stocky human boy revealed himself to be the Strunk in question, and that was that.

FE-74 seemed eager to separate herself from the A/V disaster that was Jakku and wasted no time launching into the weather forecast for their next stop, the Hapes Consortium. The technical difficulties had thrown FE off of her tight schedule, and Kylo and Siv were not granted screen time for commentary as the other mentors had been.

“We are getting absolutely shafted at every turn,” sighed Siv from Kylo’s left.

He mumbled something in agreement, but, if he was honest, the missed interview was for the best. He was not sure he would have been able to compose himself in front of the cameras.

It wasn’t just that his tribute was pretty. She was beautiful, he thought, even with sand in her hair and the absolute death glare she gave the droid who had called her name. But so were the tributes who had just been reaped from Hapes, who were impossibly tall and muscular and threw it back into the cameras with everything they had. Everyone, including these freshly reaped Hapans, knew that Hapes' famed beauties often received dozens more gifts than all the other tributes combined. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched a girl, and his hormones were more than happy to remind him of this during the Hapan Reaping as well as Jakku's.

So, it wasn’t just her beauty. Something different and unfamiliar had surged inside of him when the sandstorm subsided and he got a good look at her face. Was it just him, or did the sand seem to clear away from her a moment before it withdrew its attack on the other citizens of Jakku? No one else had mentioned it, if they had. And surely that wind would have knocked a regular person over. How did she manage to stay standing through the storm? Again, that didn’t seem to bother anyone else. But the strangest part: for a second, he could have sworn he felt the heat of Jakku’s sun on his neck and the salty taste of sand in his mouth.

He was losing it.

He didn’t even know her name.

“The nephew of the Chume’da will be a formidable competitor,” Quinn was boasting to the camera, apparently pleased with his tribute assignment.

“That’s right, quite exciting!” FE exclaimed. “And tell us his name again, so we can all be sure to sponsor him.”

Quinn glanced around nervously. “Uh…”

“Ellias,” huffed Parnadee, who was to train the female Hapan. And was apparently the only one of the pair with a decent short-term memory.

“Ellias,” said Quinn, louder than Parnadee, to make it sound like he had thought of it on his own. “Please do send plenty of gifts for Ellias and me.”

The Reaping was entering its final phases and the audience grew noticeably more excited as the camera crews entered the Galactic Core. Like she had with Hapes, FE spent extra time exclaiming over panoramic views of the agricultural planet Salliche, and mentors Kanida and Shay were granted extra time to talk up its tributes.

When FE announced it was time to head to Chandrila, the second-to-last stop of the day, Kylo felt his stomach turn and could not bear to focus on the production any longer.

It was all becoming too real. He thought of Phasma’s red warlord and Carr and Garran’s Lanniks. Even though she’d been the only one standing during the Reaping, his tribute could not have been more than two heads taller the tiny Teedos around her. He imagined her standing next to a Wookiee. Even Strunk, her fellow Jakkuvian, looked like he could tear her down. She might have withstood a sandstorm, but twenty-three other tributes coming at her with weapons was a different story. He’d have to spend weeks training her only to watch her die. He felt sick.

_No_ , he corrected himself. That wasn’t the point. What would Snoke think about him, Kylo Ren, caring if his tribute died when there was a less than 1 in 24 chance that she would live? The point of the Games was to punish the planets that had rebelled against the First Order, not to send Academy students into ethical turmoil.

Or, maybe it was. Maybe that was part of the game. The Games. Snoke, testing the resolve of his students. Kylo would not give in to it. He would remember his training as a Knight. He would steel himself to the thought of death. He would become a man in doing so.

A roaring round of applause brought Kylo’s attention back to the great hall. The Reaping ceremony was over. Across the galaxy, tributes were being loaded into First Order spacecraft and sent back to Starkiller Base. This part he had to imagine for himself. In the past few years, the citizens of the First Order had grown uncomfortable witnessing the post-ceremony struggles between the freshly Reaped tributes and the stormtroopers assigned to wrangle them and were now provided with a more palatable recap from FE-74 instead.

Since it was being holo-cast live, the mentors were expected to remain seated and pay close attention to FE’s coverage, but they quickly devolved into hushed conversation.

“So, who’s Phasma’s war machine going to kill first?”

“Looks like he might’ve killed Griss’s girl already.”

“Quinn, you’re going to feel ugly as fuck being filmed next to that absolute god for weeks on end.”

“Shut up!”

“Maso’s gal is going to eat Goneril’s for breakfast.”

“Have some faith in her, won’t you?”

“Looks like you’re about to go for a little swim, Hux.”

“Cut it out!”

“I think the Lantillians and the Naboo might get along.”

“Alliance, already?”

Thankfully, Kylo’s tribute didn’t seem to be on anyone’s mind, not obviously a target or a threat. That gave him time to think before their first meeting with the Gamemakers.

His public appearance was just as important as his tribute’s. In an ideal world, they’d work together to create a combined image, a unified story for the First Order to get behind. But with her being from Jakku—and judging from the look she’d given the droid that called her name—he couldn’t count on her cooperation. He would have to be the one to step up and be the face of their team. But what face would this be? He felt like most of his classmates considered him aloof. Mysterious, even. He could play to that if he felt like his tribute had the potential to be a sleeper cell, a late bloomer, an underdog. But, as much as he had snarled when Phasma had mentioned it, it _was_ pretty unlikely that he’d make it long enough in the Games for that angle to pay off in time. What about intimidating? He was fairly certain he looked the part, but the point was for his tribute to be the threat, not him. And if she didn’t match that energy, it would be incredibly off-putting for the audience. He wasn’t quite sure what that left him with, except… being _likeable_.

He looked around at his classmates and decided absolutely none of them would ever describe him as charismatic. Maybe he’d align himself with Siv, who no one could say a bad word about. Let her bring in the sponsors. A Jakku pact. That could work.

He was debating how to broach this idea to Siv as the mentors were dismissed from the great hall and led to the Gamemakers’ wing inside Starkiller Base, trailed by a few camera crews. But she’d finally given up trying to talk to Kylo and drifted behind him in line to speak with Engell. Maybe later.

⁂

Even though the Games themselves weren’t set to begin for another few weeks, the Gamemakers’ headquarters were already bustling with activity. A whirlpool of stormtroopers and droids twisted in-between the line of students filing by, not paying them any mind. Several Gamemakers were having some sort of argument outside the doors to the workroom, and Vonreg, who was leading the line of mentors, had to cough politely so that they’d move out of the way and admit the students into the massive chamber.

Kylo and the rest of his classmates had seen the Gamemakers’ workroom before, but only in holographic tours from their professors. The real thing was a sight to behold, and he gasped along with everyone else upon entering.

The chamber was massive: the walls so high that he couldn’t distinguish where the ceiling began; the floor so expansive that the troopers working in the back almost disappeared over the horizon. In the center stood the pride and joy of the First Order: a massive, holographic model of the arena, blinking and turning and enhancing bits of itself as the Gamemakers standing around it fiddled with their control panels. It was an incredible piece of technology that allowed the Gamemakers to keep a virtual eye on all of the tributes throughout the Games, deliver their packages from sponsors, or unleash muttations, firestorms, and other, more creative forms of chaos into the ring when things got boring for the audience. Kylo recognized the projection immediately as last year’s arena, which was no surprise. It was against the rules for mentors or tributes to have access to information about that year’s arena before the Games began.

The mentors were directed to a cluster of seats set up in front of the arena simulation and sat in silence.

After a few tense minutes, a door adjacent to where they’d entered hissed open, and Ren appeared in a cloud of smoke.

Mighty Ren, Head Gamemaker and original Master of the Knights of Ren, strode over to stand before the mentors. Kylo had only ever been in his presence once before, during his initiation into the Knights. Ren had graduated from the Academy the previous year and had wanted to come back to supervise the first initiation ceremony that would take place without him, but he ended up delivering most of the rites himself. Although he was only eight at the time, Kylo remembered the glow of Ren’s red saber in the otherwise pitch-black room as vividly as if it were yesterday. He had listened, awestruck, as Master Ren described _the_ Ren—the ravenous, consuming energy of humankind, as violent and volatile as the saber itself.

Despite having aged ten years and becoming a Master himself since seeing him last, Kylo noticed he still felt rather small in Ren’s presence. It made him angry.

“Students,” Ren hissed through his signature mask, its runes glowing red. “Welcome to the Games. We’ve got quite a few surprises in store for you this year.”

Kylo heard Parnadee gulp beside him. While the Games were always entertaining, no one except Ren seemed to actually _enjoy_ them. His pride about this year’s Games could only mean a fresh world of horrors awaited the tributes.

“The second your tributes were chosen, your mentorship began. Their behavior reflects on you. You reflect on the First Order. That said, it’s time we revisit the rules of the Games. Look around at each other.”

The mentors did as Ren obeyed.

“Twenty-four mentors. All here, all paying attention. All expected to repeat these rules to their tributes. No one who breaks a rule can claim ignorance. Anyone whose tribute steps out of line will be held accountable.”

Ren had not asked for any affirmation, but the whole class was nodding.

“You there,” he pointed a large finger at Malarus. “What is the most important rule of the Games?”

“Last one standing wins,” he recited.

“Any swamp rat in the galaxy would say the same thing. Think like a mentor. What’s the most important rule of the Games?” His finger landed on Carr.

“Put on a good show?” Carr suggested with a half-hearted chuckle.

Ren did not seem to appreciate this attempt at lightening the situation. “Do I look like I run a fucking circus?”

“No, sir,” Carr responded immediately.

Ren turned away, as if he couldn’t even stomach looking at Carr any longer. “You.” He pointed at Kylo. This time there was no question.

There was no way Ren remembered who he was—after all, Kylo had been a child the last time they were in a room together—but Kylo was determined to answer the way a true Knight would.

He thought a moment. If he was honest, the rule Malarus named was one of the few they’d ever been taught. What else did that leave? There was the one about the tributes not being able to step off their pedestals in the arena until the official Games countdown hit zero, but that didn’t seem particularly important. Nor did the one about not being able to bring anything into the arena—that was fairly obvious. Thinking outside of the box was more challenging. To Carr’s credit, it was well known that a certain amount of theatrics brought in higher audience ratings, but Ren didn’t strike Kylo as the kind of person cared all too much about what other people thought. No, it was deeper than that. The answer lay at the heart of the Games. At the heart of the Ren.

“To safeguard the First Order’s supremacy. Because without it, the galaxy would descend into chaos again,” Kylo said.

Ren grunted something that might have been approval. “That’s more like it. The Games are a punishment, first and foremost. The galaxy must not forget what happens when traitors try to take up arms against the First Order.”

_Like my parents_ , Kylo thought. He would not forget.

Ren began to speed up, speaking almost excitedly. “And what better way to display that than with such a finely orchestrated display of chaos? The Games draw out the basic instinct of survival, even in the young. They descend into madness and become cold-blooded killers. The arena becomes a lawless wasteland, everyone inside reduced to predator or prey.”

He began to pace back and forth. “But what if that lawless wasteland could be controlled? It can. That’s the real beauty of the Games. _We_ call all of the shots; the only predator is the First Order."

Kylo wasn’t sure the statements spewing out of Ren made any sense strung together, but it didn’t matter. The point was coming across well enough.

"And the best predator is one who is trusted by its prey. Who keeps its jaw open so long that the prey learns to come and go freely from its mouth, so that they never suspect for a minute that the teeth are about to close down around them. The tributes inside eventually begin to believe they have agency, that their actions determine whether they live or die. And that’s when they need a reminder that they don’t."

_SNAP_! Ren clapped his hands together so loudly that half the class jumped. "That's when the jaws come down.

“To make it even more beautiful,” Ren continued, “we add a contrast. Our youth, instructed to guide theirs. Ours seeking status, theirs trying to survive. To remind the galaxy that the First Order has been, and will always be, superior. The natural order of things. And for the next few weeks, all of that rides on your twenty-four heads. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the class echoed.

Ren had apparently reached the end of his speech, because his next words were delivered with much less enthusiasm. “Anything up on that screen or in that arena that looks bad for the First Order looks infinitely worse for you and your future. You’re dismissed.”

Ren dismissed himself first, striding back through the doorway he came from.

“Some pep talk,” whispered Kanida.

But it had worked. The mentors had been sufficiently warned.

⁂

This time, Kylo’s getting to sleep late could not be blamed on the Knights.

He had been thinking over Ren’s words since dinner. He wasn’t entirely sure what it had all meant, and the need for clarity nagged at him until he returned to his quarters and removed the box he kept hidden under his bed.

The helmet had been a gift from Snoke for Kylo’s eighteenth birthday. _It’s time you become the man your grandfather was_ , he had said. _Let him guide you, as I have_. Kylo hadn’t been sure what that meant until the first time it spoke to him.

Well, maybe _spoke_ was not quite the right word. The helmet _showed_ him things. He could see and hear and smell scenes from his grandfather’s life when he concentrated hard enough and focused on the dark undercurrents that brought forth the Force within him. The scenes were always short, no more than a few seconds each and often fragmented, but he had found that when he sought different things, the visions would change. He liked to think of them as lessons. Messages his grandfather sent him that he was to interpret and use.

Tonight, Kylo wasn’t exactly sure what he sought. He knelt in front of the helmet, staring at the charred leather and warped metal. It had scared him at first, so he spent hours staring at it on the night of his eighteenth birthday to kill that childish instinct. Now, he found, he could really admire it. It was beautiful, in its own dark, mangled way.

_Show me chaos_ , he thought. That’s what he needed, to really understand what Ren had been talking about. To understand the true purpose of the Games. He took a deep breath and removed his glove before placing his hand to the helmet.

_The crack of a whip, a smatter of blood on sand._

_A dying woman, hands in shackles, the smell of a campfire._

_The screams of an entire village, so wretched distorted they belonged to not a single creature in the galaxy but somehow belonged to all of them. **I killed them. I killed them all.**_

_Hum of saber on saber, a cross of electric blue against a background of fire. Hot, scorching flames, the blood-like taste of iron._

_The crackle of electricity bending against heavy winds_. _**Power, unlimited power.**_

_A pile of bodies on the floor, each mutilated by a deep gash of saber—_

With a start, Kylo ripped his hand away. He cursed himself for interrupting the lesson. He had asked for this, and now he must be shown chaos. He steadied his breath and reached out again.

_Something with horns and red eyes, peering at him through darkness._

_More screams, this time distinctly human and female._

_**Do it.**_ _The swipe of a saber across the neck of someone on their knees._

_The pile of bodies again, a mangled face_ —

Again, he jerked away from the helmet. He burst into his ‘fresher and retched once over the toilet bowl before he came to his senses. He slumped against the bathtub, the cool tile a welcome relief on his cheek.

He was so weak, so childish. His grandfather had lived these scenes—was showing them to Kylo as a gift—and he couldn’t even bring himself to watch them all. Snoke had been right all along. He would never be as great as Lord Vader. He would be a disappointment to the galaxy, just like his parents. What a waste of power. What a waste of potential.

Kylo wasn’t sure how long he spent on the floor of the ‘fresher before he managed to drag himself into bed. It was useless, though; he couldn’t fall asleep.

Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see were the slashed bodies of children strewn across a marble floor.

⁂

He must have fallen asleep eventually, but judging from the heavy feeling in his eyes when he pried them open, it had not been nearly enough. Kylo took a few minutes to steady himself and found that he could easily banish any lingering thoughts about the night before from his mind. Good. There was plenty else to worry about.

Today, thanks to a concerted effort involving hyperspace priority lanes and intricate velocity calculations, the tributes were all set to arrive at Starkiller Base at the same time. The mentors were going to accompany them to their quarters as a gesture of welcome from the First Order and, of course, it was all going to be filmed.

He was finally going to meet his tribute. Rey—that was her name. The stormtroopers on Jakku must have clarified it with the droid who performed the Reaping before departing, because every tribute was named in the summary transmission sent to the mentors’ comlinks the previous evening.

Rey from Jakku. He wondered if she had been told his name ahead of time or if he would have to introduce himself. Oh, stars, what would he say? “Hi, I’m Kylo, and I’ve been assigned a personal stake in watching you die”? Maybe just “hi, I’m Kylo, and I’m sorry”? No—he’d said it himself yesterday at their meeting with Ren: remind the galaxy who’s in charge. He was to remember his place and mentor with a clear head. And—he hadn’t forgotten this dilemma, either—somehow make himself personable to the viewers while doing it.

Oh _no_. He was good with words, sure, but not conversation. And not only that, but conversation with someone he’d never met before, and who he wanted to trust him? It was going to be a disaster.

He was still rehearsing potential greetings in his head as he walked onto a hangar bay with the rest of the mentors and awaited the arrival of the last few tribute-bearing ships. At least everyone else seemed similarly nervous.

“What are you going to say to your tribute?” he asked Siv. Their tributes would be arriving together, so they stood as a pair. Her dark hair was divided into hundreds of twists that joined together to form an elegant bun on her head, and he deduced that she’d been up for hours, too.

She shook her head. “Gosh, I don’t know. It’s kind of unclear if we’re even supposed to talk to them at all, or just walk with them.”

Kylo hadn’t considered that, but he did recall mentors in years past nodding at the cameras with their tributes on their arms. Was that today? He thought he remembered a bit more pomp, but maybe that was another ceremony.

“I think I’ll talk to mine, regardless,” Siv mused. “I’d be scared out of my mind to begin with, and if no one even spoke to me on top of that? I can’t imagine.”

Kylo nodded. He supposed he hadn’t considered the fact that Rey might be scared, either. He was off to a terrible start as her mentor. “What would you want to be told?” he asked Siv. Rey looked about their age, and Siv was a girl. She would know much better than he how to talk to her. “If you were a tribute, I mean.”

"That I was free to go home,” she snorted. “Seriously, though, there’s nothing really to be said that makes this any better. I guess being told by my mentor, ‘I’m on your side,’ might be nice. This lot quite literally has the entire galaxy against them.” 

Oh, that was good. He would use that for sure.

A substantial amount of pressure was lifted from the mentors’ shoulders when FE appeared and informed them that none of the audio from the tributes’ entrance would be used for the broadcast. She’d be delivering a voiceover commentary, instead. Polite conversation—perhaps a few words of welcome— with the tributes was encouraged but not expected. When they’d try to force such encounters in the past, the Gamemakers had been met with a lot of stony silence from the tributes that did not play well on the air. So, the mentors could say whatever they wanted, as long as it kept the tributes relatively calm. Oh, and there would be a stormtrooper escort of each mentor-tribute pair, in case it didn’t.

The procession was to occur in the same order the Reaping had, so once again Pryde was stationed front and center, looking unpleasant as ever. With nothing else to film until the tributes actually started to disembark, the cameras kept panning back to him and Goneril at the front of the line. Kylo wondered if the Gamemakers had considered Pryde being the first face anyone would associate with this year’s Games when they assigned him to Utapau. Probably not.

He and Siv did their best to listen in on what their classmates were saying to their tributes when the event finally began, but they were too far back in the mentor line, and the clamor of spaceship engines competing with the clank of stormtrooper armor was too much to overcome. The mentors whose tributes had not yet been welcomed were off-camera, and no one had thought to provide them with a screen to watch the procession of their classmates before them. Perhaps that was for the better—he would be quite happy if he never had to lay eyes on Phasma’s tribute again in his life.

There was some commotion after Bolander rounded the corner to greet her tribute. Carr, who’d been standing behind her in line, poked his head around and reported back down the line of mentors: Bolander’s tribute had lost her footing exiting the ship, and was now clinging desperately to Bolander on quaking legs, unable to stand properly.

"Probably weak from being starved and dehydrated, poor thing,” remarked Siv. It was a poorly kept secret that tributes did not necessarily receive luxury accommodations on their trip to Starkiller Base. But they were treated like kings and queens once they arrived. And, besides, that was probably not something Siv should have been pointing out with so many cameras nearby.

“It’s to make them look weak when they arrive, so the before and after pictures they present before the Games begin are more impressive,” Kylo corrected her. “Show the galaxy how great First Order training is, and all that.” He wasn’t exactly sure that was the logic behind the starving and dehydration, but it was what made the most sense.

“Well, then it looks like Bolander’s tribute is in position to have the most stunning transformation these Games.”

“Maybe so.”

The next few arrivals went smoothly, and Kylo felt himself getting more nervous with each passing second. He was glad he was wearing gloves so his hands wouldn’t be sweaty when he shook Rey’s hand. Should he shake her hand? That seemed polite. He wished he knew what everyone else had done.

Before he knew it, he and Siv were rounding the corner themselves, into the view of the cameras. He caught a glimpse of Griss and his Mimbanese tribute walking down the path that had been cleared in the hangar, Griss raising a polite hand of greeting to the camera crews, his tribute clutching his arm. She looked rather helpless like that, Kylo thought. But at least she seemed to have dried off since the Reaping ceremony.

His attention turned back to the ship docked in front of them, where a stormtrooper was escorting the male tribute from Jakku—Strunk—down the landing ramp. He was firmly built, which was apparent even under the misshapen rags he was wearing. And blond, his hair unkempt but still somehow well-shaped. And handsome, too, in a rugged way, which only became more apparent when he grinned at Siv and said, “so you must be the poor fool they tricked into training me.” It was absurdly charming. Kylo decided he hated him.

Thankfully Siv was receptive to his humor. “I didn’t have any say in the matter, which I thinks makes me an even bigger fool,” she smiled back. “Welcome to Starkiller Base.”

She held out her arm politely for him to hold, but he weaved his elbow through hers instead. “We might as well give these clowns a good show,” he declared, and made a movement like he was getting ready to skip down the aisle.

But he hesitated a moment, turning back to face Kylo. He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder toward the ship on which he’d arrived. “Good luck with your gal, brother. She bites!”

Sure enough, when Kylo turned again to the ship, there was some sort of struggle going down between two stormtroopers, halfway out the doorway, and the girl. Or, part of her. The only evidence of her existence was a pair of flailing legs. Despite being heavily armed and dragging the girl easily by her arms, the stormtroopers were having a rough go of it. They did their best to maintain form, but she was kicking at them like there was no tomorrow. And if she kept this up, there might not be. For either of them.

This couldn’t be happening. In a few seconds she’d be in frame of the cameras and the whole galaxy would witness Kylo’s tribute kicking the shit out of First Order soldiers. And the second she was on screen, she was his responsibility. He’d have to take over for the stormtroopers and, presumably, start getting the shit kicked out of him instead.

He could already picture how his classmates would laugh at him. He wondered what Ren would think, watching one of his own Knights get abused by a girl from Jakku, less than twenty-four hours after warning the mentors about this exact scenario. Snoke would call him a disgrace, and it would be deserved. He had to do something, and he had to act fast.

He hurried up the landing ramp, only passing in front of the cameras for a split second. Ahead of him, Strunk was succeeding in putting on a show, and the camera crews had no trouble lavishing a little extra attention on him. Good. That saved Kylo some precious time.

The stormtroopers had finally managed to get Rey out of the doorway. The wrap she’d been wearing on the day of the Reaping, once white, was frayed and stained with an array of mysterious substances. Her hair was falling out of the three buns he’d seen with yesterday, and with each kick, more wayward locks followed suit. A smattering of freckles overlaid the years of sun-damaged skin on her nose, crinkled in a snarl as she shouted profanities at her stormtrooper escorts.

She was somehow more beautiful in person.

“I’m Kylo Ren,” he said, holding his palms up in front of him like he was bargaining with an angry dog. “I’m your mentor. I’m here to escort you.”

She didn’t bother with the profanities when she finally turned to look at him, spitting at his feet instead.

_Stupid_ , he thought to himself. Why had he thought any of that would calm her down? Maybe it was a waste of time to try to talk with her at all.

“Let her go,” Kylo commanded the stormtroopers. Maybe she’d relax when she wasn’t being manhandled.

The troopers hesitated. “She’ll make a run for it, boss.”

“No, she won’t,” insisted Kylo. She just needed to think it was her idea. He turned to face Rey and held out a hand. With as much calm as he could muster, he looked her in the eyes and spoke: “you will not try to escape.”

This intrigued Rey enough for her to stop kicking and raise an eyebrow at him. “Says who?”

_What_? He’d been able to do this since he was a boy. It should have worked… stars, how he needed it to work… he could hear Siv and Strunk were about to reach the end of the aisle… “You will not try to escape,” he said again, this time with more conviction.

“I will not try to escape,” chorused the two stormtroopers.

Rey didn’t seem to have heard them. Instead, all of her rage was focused directly at Kylo. “If you think I won’t try to escape this disgusting slaughter-fest that you lot dare to call a ‘Game,’ then you’re even stupider than you look.”

Kylo barely registered the words coming out of her mouth. _How was she doing this? What was she?_ Panic rose in his chest. He needed to get her onto the deck, and fast, otherwise the cameras would swivel back around to the ship and film Kylo Ren getting cussed out by a furious desert rat. His heart was nearly beating out of his throat. He whipped his head around for one last check on Siv and Strunk’s progress, to see how much time he had, and...

His eyes landed on Bolander, who had returned to watch the rest of the procession after delivering her wobbly-legged tribute to the training quarters.

_Of course_.

He closed his eyes and allowed his panic to feed into the Force. He turned around just as the cameras pivoted his way. Just in time to see the dazed stormtroopers’ grip loosen around Rey’s arms. Just in time to catch her as she collapsed, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember being 18 and going from poorly processing your trauma one second to worrying what your crush will think about you the next? Miss it...
> 
>  **SW References**  
> [Strunk](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Strunk) appears in the companion book Before the Awakening (pre-TFA) and Rey's Survival Guide.  
> [Hapes](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Hapes_Consortium/Legends) plays a big role in Legends comics but, more importantly, is the setting of diasterisms' fantastic [Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442951/chapters/25645101). The Chume'da translates to Queen Mother.  
> [Ren](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Ren) is a person, _the_ [Ren](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Ren_\(lightsaber\)) is his lightsaber slash religion, and Kylo Ren is a title Kylo got when he became the Master of the Knights of Ren. SW canon is just as [obsessed with the name Ren](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Ren_\(disambiguation\)) as they are with the name Ben, apparently.  
> There are circuses AND clowns in SW canon, [I](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Circus) [checked](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Clown/Legends)!  
> Kylo's nice little powerpoint presentation from Grandpappy Anakin consists of highlights from the prequel trilogy. I did choose each scene for a specific reason but I feel like interpreting them like Kylo did is more fun!  
> [Comlinks](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Comlink).
> 
>  **THG References**  
> [The Gamemakers](https://thehungergames.fandom.com/wiki/Gamemaker).  
> [Muttations](https://thehungergames.fandom.com/wiki/Muttation).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by Kylo "Mommy Issues" Ren and [this incredible edit](https://twitter.com/adamridleys/status/1274407338070466560) by adamridleys on Twitter that made me soft as HELL! They're exactly how I pictured K/B&R in this fic, those sweet tormented teens 🥺 On a more serious note, thanks so much to everyone who has read, commented, and bookmarked so far! It means a lot to me that people are actually enjoying this little fic, and has been really encouraging as I continue to write :) 
> 
> **Content Warnings for this Chapter**  
>  Kylo is a dick and reads Rey's mind aggressively without her consent, and the language used to describe it sounds a little rape-y. See End Notes for an expanded explanation. To skip, stop reading at "With anyone else," bring the car around, and hop back in at "What happened next." 
> 
> A reference to drug withdrawal in minor characters; to avoid, skip the paragraph that starts with "'No, I’ve been on a victory tour...'"
> 
> There's an allusion to forced prostitution (NOT Kylo or Rey) in line with Hunger Games canon. See End Notes for expanded explanation. To avoid, skip the paragraph that starts with "'Wherever the First Order sends me.'"

III.

Everyone would think that she’d fainted. That poor, desert-dwelling Rey had already been dehydrated when she was chosen at the Reaping, and that rising to her feet to disembark on Starkiller Base had been too much for her to take. Bolander’s tribute could barely stand, but Kylo’s had fainted, so he’d had to carry her, racking up sympathy points from the audience as he went.

Poor, weak Rey. Kylo figured _that_ image of her was a lot better than the truth, especially for now.

He looked down at her in his arms as he carried her across the hangar, the gasps from the small audience only barely registering in his consciousness. Her rage had been inflating her; like this, she seemed so harmless and small.

If only that were the truth. He hoped he could keep her unconscious long enough to avoid having the entire galaxy witness her reaction to waking up in his arms.

“Oh, my stars! That poor thing. Perhaps she wasn’t prepared for hyperspace. It’s not something most Jakkuvians are used to, I’m told.” FE’s commentary was blessedly benign and reflected just the mood Kylo had been going for. Still, he found, he couldn’t get out of the room quickly enough.

He didn’t need to use the Force to feel the eyes of his classmates and _every_ camera crew on him. It was too much. He felt his ears redden and thanked his lucky stars that his hair had grown out long enough to cover them since his last military-issue haircut. He needed something to focus him, something to keep him grounded during what was turning out to be the longest walk of his life. 

At first, he kept his sight trained on Rey. That was easy enough to do—when her face wasn’t contorted with rage it was quite nice to look at: long lashes resting against round cheeks, a button nose dusted in freckles, the most perfect set of lips he’d ever laid eyes on. The rest of her was not hard on the eyes, either, despite her dirty desert rags that had begun to gape a little at her chest and maybe no one would notice if he took just _one_ quick look… Reason set in, and he snapped his head back up, focusing only on the doorway at the end of the aisle. He worried his staring had given away his pathetic little crush. What if his classmates noticed? They’d never let him hear the end of it. Or worse: what if the cameras had caught it? _For this First Order mentor, it was love at first sight!_ the tabloid headlines would say. He hurriedly readjusted his hands to make it obvious he was holding Rey by her knees and armpits and nowhere else.

Three medics appeared with a stretcher just as Kylo was ready to exit the hangar, and he was forced to hand over his tribute.

“She’s fine!” he began to say, but caught himself. They wouldn’t find anything wrong with her, and she’d be free to go in no time. Let them do their jobs. _Optics_. Still on camera, the medics made a big show of hooking Rey up to all sorts of wires and sensors before wheeling her out of sight.

Kylo didn’t bother following them.

⁂

As much as he would have liked to watch the rest of the procession with his classmates, Kylo stayed in his quarters until lunch, when the mentors were supposed to meet as a group again. Let everyone think he’d done the noble thing and stayed with his sickly tribute in the medical ward.

Unfortunately, that strategy left plenty of time for his classmates to gossip.

“There’s our dashing groom!” Opan exclaimed when Kylo sat down at their table. Carr slapped him on the back.

“Somebody’s taken a real liking to his tribute already,” sneered Engell while Garan made kissy faces next to her.

Kylo ignored the two women. “Your _what_?” he asked Opan. No one answered him.

“The most romantic thing the galaxy’s ever seen!” Griss exclaimed, pretending to faint.

“We were taking bets on whether or not you’d kiss her, the way you were looking at her,” teased Barrut.

Kylo wished someone would do _him_ the favor of forcing him to lose consciousness. And erase every memory of this horror, while they were at it.

“Oh, shut it, he did what he had to do,” grumbled Bolander, who was obviously not over the humiliation her own tribute mishap had caused. Kylo was grateful for her support, whatever her motive.

“Maybe, but he didn’t have to look at her like _that_ ,” laughed Hux.

“At least he had the stomach to look at his tribute at all, Hux,” snorted Hask.

The group soon remembered that Hux’s compulsion to lash out against every taunt made him a much better punching bag and finally left Kylo alone to his lunch.

“The way you held her is called a ‘bridal carry,’” Siv whispered to Kylo as they mixed water into their polystarch rations. “That’s why Opan was making wedding jokes.”

Kylo felt himself blush. “What? Is that really a thing?” He supposed he’d never really been to a wedding.

Siv nodded. “On lots of human planets, yeah. I think the idea is that the groom carries the bride over the threshold of their new home at the end of the wedding so they can, ah… consummate it in peace.”

“Fuck me,” Kylo moaned, burying his face into his hands.

“It’s okay! It played well in the audience’s eyes, at least on the recap I watched,” she assured him. “What else were you supposed to do, swing her over your shoulder like a sack of flour?”

“Maybe I should have,” he sighed.

“Why, so _Opan_ wouldn’t make fun of you? That boy can’t even look at anything with an X chromosome without blushing. Anyway, I thought it was really sweet,” she admitted.

Had it been anyone else telling him this, Kylo would have Force choked their lunch back out of their throat but, coming from Siv, it was almost comforting. 

“Thank you,” he grumbled. “And if anyone asks, I do _not_ have a crush on her.”

Siv gave him a sympathetic look and patted his arm in a way that suggested she didn’t quite believe him, but she promised she would, nonetheless.

After finishing lunch, the mentors were dismissed to their tributes, who were expected to have freshened themselves up in the meantime. Each pair was given a survey to fill out. It was mostly basic demographic information Kylo figured the First Order could have collected themselves, but he supposed having the mentors complete them with their mentees was intended to make them bond.

He and Bolander separated from the rest of the group and headed to the medical ward, assignments in hand.

“I’m here to see my tribute. The girl from Jakku,” he told the trooper at the front desk.

The clerk made a noise. Was he… _laughing_ at him? “I’ll let the staff know. Give me a moment.”

The attending physician met Kylo in the lobby herself and led him to Rey’s room. “There’s been, ah, a bit of an incident,” she explained as they passed through the blindingly white corridors.

“Is she okay?” Kylo asked, stopping suddenly. Why hadn’t they told him sooner? Had he actually injured her somehow?

“Oh! Yes! The girl is fine. We did a full cardiology workup, totally normal. Guessing it was purely vasovagal. All we’ve done is given her fluids and some food. She has quite the appetite,” the doctor assured him. “No, the incident I’m referring to was with our staff. She’s been a bit… combative. So, we had to take some measures to intervene. You’ll see.”

_Oh_.

The doctor seemed to have no issue letting Kylo forge ahead alone and hurried away almost _eagerly_ when they drew closer to Rey’s door. Outside, he took a deep breath and strode into her room with as much confidence he could muster. He found her very much awake, still wearing her dirty wrap and sitting up in her hospital bed, surrounded with a vast array of empty dishes. She was still working on a bowl of something porridge-y when she met his eyes. She was… not pleased.

Kylo made an attempt to clear the air. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

She didn’t miss a beat. “What did you do to me?”

He stiffened. “Nothing. You fainted.”

“I did _not_ faint.”

“It was hot and dry in that ship. You must have been dehydrated.”

“I’ve lived in the desert my whole life and have never once fainted,” she said, clearly proud of this meager accomplishment. “Besides, I seem to remember launching a healthy amount of spit at you.”

She had him there. “Well, maybe I didn’t want the galaxy’s first impression of our team to be me dragging you, kicking and screaming, across a hangar,” he huffed.

“Our team?” she snorted.

“Yes, our team,” he snapped. “Like it or not, we’re in this together. For these next few weeks, you’re my guest.”

“Guest!” she laughed again. She jerked her left arm, and Kylo realized she had been cuffed to the arm of the bed. “Some welcome treatment.”

“What did you expect to happen when you tried to assault two stormtroopers?” Kylo felt the beginnings of rage spark inside of him. She might be pretty, but, stars, was she _annoying_.

“That I’d succeed in assaulting them. And I would have, if you’d have left me alone.”

Cocky. She wouldn’t last a minute in the Games. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I. Did. Not. Faint.” Rey reared up in her bed as far as the cuff would allow. She was restrained, physically incapable of harming him, and yet, she was trying to _intimidate_ him.

Kylo was not easy to intimidate. He took a step closer to her so that he was peering down at her. Looming. Kylo’s loom tended to work well for him: in training with the Knights; in combat practice with fellow mentors; in arguments with classmates. The common reaction to it—the wise reaction—was for his opponent to back down.

Rey spat in his face.

This time, he managed to duck out of the way, but he found himself just as angry as he would have been if he'd ended up with a face-full of her spit. How dare she? All he was doing was trying to help her. Why didn’t she understand? What was she trying to achieve in pushing his buttons? She wanted him to crack. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of an angry outburst. He stayed in her face. “If I freed your hand, what would you do? Break your plastic fork and try to kill me? You want to kill me?”

“That’s the natural response when you’re about to be forced to fight to the death, yeah.”

“And have you thought about where that would get you? If you killed me? They’d fill you up with blaster holes before you could think twice. You wouldn’t get the chance to fight. _I’m_ your chance. I’m all you have.” He slammed the survey down on the tray in front of her, scattering a handful of empty cups and bowls. “So, work with me.”

Something he’d said made Rey back down, just an inch. For a second, the look of anger on her face was replaced by something else. Shock, maybe. But it took just a moment for her to reposition her mask of defiance.

Her eyes flickered down to the paper. “What in fuck’s name is that? I’m from Jakku, and even I haven’t used pen and paper in years.”

Kylo had always had a soft spot for reading and writing on paper, even if it was hopelessly outdated by the breakneck speed of galactic technology advancement. He’d chosen the paper option when offered the survey, thinking that maybe she’d find it… quaint? Charming? He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking at the time, but _this_ was definitely not the reaction he’d hoped for. Now he just felt like the galaxy’s biggest idiot.

“A stupid fucking survey. About you,” he snapped. “I have to fill it out.”

“I’m not telling you anything.” There was that rage again, a flicker of something dark and deep behind her hazel eyes.

Kylo’s nostrils flared. He was so mad, so dangerously mad, and _embarrassed_ on top of that… something had to give. He glared into Rey’s eyes and broke into her mind.

With anyone else—his Knights, for example—tapping into the mind was like taking a step through an open doorway. No need to stay long or take a look around; everything he needed was right there, on the surface. Rey’s mind, however, was triple-bolted with iron reinforcements. He slammed himself into it at full speed, with such force that he almost heard an audible _crack_.

Rey reared backward, the terror she’d surely been feeling this whole time manifesting itself on her face for the first time. But he wouldn’t be here long. He just needed to show her what he was capable of.

When he let her go, he leaned into her face again and hissed, “you know I can take whatever I want.”

He glanced at the paper in front of them, trying to maintain a steady hand while his heart slammed itself against his ribcage. With her guard down—effectively shattered—he could finally ease himself into her mind, like anyone else’s, and get what he needed. “First name? Rey. Family name? None. Home planet? Jakku. Gender? Female. Age? Eighteen.” It was cruel, he knew it was. He’d taken her by surprise, which was dishonorable on its own, but he also very much doubted she’d experienced anything like the Force before on Jakku. She couldn’t have any idea what he was doing, and he didn’t bother to explain. It was unjust, and yet…

The swell of dark power within him grew stronger by the second. He was in control, as he was meant to be. He continued to read the survey aloud, but in his ears rose the sound of last night’s screams. Familiar images of burning and blood and death flickered across his mind, but this time, he did not shy away from them. Something deep inside him was _feeding_ off of his cruelty and anger and leaving these visions in its tracks. He remembered all the times Snoke had called him useless and the lunch table today, all of his classmates laughing at him. The flames inside him burned brighter, stronger, _yes_ , this was it, this is what his grandfather had been trying to show him, this was who he was destined to become—

A jolt in the Force. Kylo looked up from the survey. Rey had recoiled, leaning against her pillows to get as far away from him as possible. But she had not given in. She was in pain, judging from the look on her face and the few beads of perspiration on her brow, but she did not look afraid. If anything, the flicker he’d noticed in her eyes had grown stronger. She was… resisting him. Like she had on the ramp of the ship that morning.

The fire inside of Kylo roared. The dark side of the Force had overtaken him completely. He was but a vehicle for its desires, and its only desire was to feed itself from his hate. This drove him deeper into Rey’s head, with more pressure than necessary. He stopped looking at the survey.

“You’re so lonely…” he remarked, keeping his eyes locked on hers and narrating his path through her mind. “So afraid to leave… At night, desperate to sleep, you imagine an ocean. I see it… I see the island…”

Tears began to stream down her face, but she maintained her resistance, and managed through clenched teeth: “Get. Out. Of. My. Head.” She surged up at him once more, her face landing mere inches from his own.

What happened next, Kylo could not quite explain.

There had been a day, many years ago now, when the Academy students were performing ship maintenance as part of their flight lesson. Kylo had been on cleaning duty, armed with a powerful hose. He’d misunderstood the order of ships he was supposed to be following and hit one that had landed too recently, aiming cold water at engine turbines that were scorching hot, having just exited hyperspace. Although he’d been wearing all the right gear, he received massive burns from the resulting steam and a stern safety lecture once he was cleared to exit the medical ward.

That reaction—of ice cold reacting with burning hot and the powerful release of energy it created—was the only thing remotely comparable to what he felt when Rey pushed back against him.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers as he watched them reflect her passage through shock… disbelief… determination…

“You,” she said shakily. “You’re afraid.”

She was still trembling under his sway but had found her voice. Somehow, she’d turned the tables. She was inside of _his_ mind. Kylo felt his stomach turn and his knees weaken, but, somehow, his mind was sharper than it had ever been. The _beeps_ of the machines connected to her were suddenly deafening; the soft cloth of his cloak now suffocating; the smell of antiseptic in the air strong enough to taste. Where there was once fire, now a cool wave of… _something…_ passed over him. He found he was no longer angry.

“You’re afraid,” she repeated, “that you will never be as strong as Darth Vader!”

That was enough to snap Kylo out of his stupor. He jerked his face away from hers, severing their connection with it. He couldn’t think straight anymore. He could hardly see. The fire that had been surging in his veins just a moment ago, so vivid and strong, turned to ash in his mouth. The balance in the Force was off, the feeling of it was all wrong. _How was she doing this_? _Who was she_?

He took an unsteady step back, reeling. Rey—collapsing into her pillows again, breathing heavily and looking utterly confused—was the last thing he saw before he sprinted out of her room.

⁂

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have probed his tribute’s mind. The whole point of the survey was for her to learn to trust him, after all.

But he didn’t regret it. If he hadn’t pushed her then, when would he have realized how powerful she was? Maybe too late. Maybe never. But he’d done it, and now he knew. And because he knew, he could use her power to his advantage. He’d discovered it, so he had the upper hand.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he stood outside the assembly room, waiting for his audience with Supreme Leader Snoke.

He had contacted Snoke immediately after leaving Rey's hospital room, weak and confused, but he regretted it as soon as the appointment was confirmed. When he was finally allowed inside, he kept his gaze down at his feet. He reasoned that it was an appropriate gesture of deference to the Supreme Leader, but, honestly, he couldn’t bear to look Snoke in the eyes after the events that had transpired earlier.

“The girl… this scavenger… resisted you?” Snoke asked, before Kylo was entirely done with his retelling of the story.

Well, _yes_ , but that wasn’t entirely it. “She’s strong with the Force,” Kylo explained. 

Kylo felt Snoke’s eyes on him. “Is that so?” the Supreme Leader mused, sounding wholly uninterested.

Did Snoke think he was lying? That he was claiming this as an excuse for his weakness? “Yes,” he urged, finally willing himself to look into Snoke’s mangled face. It reminded him of the scenes his grandfather had shown him the night before, and a small shudder passed through him. “Untrained, but stronger than she knows.”

“And what do you intend to do with that information?”

“I…” Kylo trailed off. “I don’t know.”

“The Force is strong with many. The Force was strong with the Jedi, and what happened to them?”

Kylo, like any good Academy student, knew the history well. “We exterminated them.”

“That’s right,” Snoke snarled. “The Force in the hands of degenerates and rogues is a dangerous thing that must be snuffed out. This year, it seems, the Games will do that for us.”

“Yes, Supreme Leader.”

“Your girl will not be a problem for much longer,” Snoke continued. “But until she’s slain with the rest of them, she is yours to command. Yours to keep under control.”

“I understand.”

“Good. If she causes you any more problems, send her to me.”

Kylo left the assembly room, his blood running cold. He felt dirty, deceitful. He had lied to the Supreme Leader while looking him in the eyes.

Because he _did_ know what to do with his newfound information. When he’d tapped into Rey’s mind—and when she’d tapped into his—he had been astonished by the sheer strength it possessed. But that wasn’t all of it; he’d felt similar reactions to these, albeit less intense, when working with the more adept Knights. No, there was something else, something _deeper_ , that had happened in that moment when his mind collided with Rey’s. When he’d reached into her consciousness—when the combined intensity of their anger met head-on—they’d set off a grenade in the Force. He was still walking around in its aftershocks, energy bubbling from every pulse point in his body. He’d never before felt this powerful, this full of life. And he was sure it was mutual because, if he concentrated hard enough, he could swear he still _felt_ her, somehow, through hundreds of floors and millions of tons of metal.

Even though she was an insufferable desert brat, even though she was the most infuriating person he’d ever spoken to, he had to admit that they shared something. Somehow, being around her fueled him. Her raw energy (somehow, miraculously untapped until today), was feeding him. With her, he could be unstoppable. She may have been right about his fear of failing to live up to his grandfather’s legacy, but had she considered that she herself might be the key to him conquering that fear? With him, she could win the Games, easily. And then she’d be his, forever indebted to him, and she’d make him the man he was always meant to be.

So, all things considered, it was glaringly obvious what he had to do.

He had to train her.

⁂

Kylo had never done any sort of drug, but he imagined this was what a high might feel like. It was like three shots of caf injected straight into his brain. Or a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. His anxiety about his intent to disobey Snoke mixed with the rush he’d felt after whatever that was that had happened with Rey, and the combination made him jittery and distractible.

He told the Knights they’d be making up for Friday’s practice and led them in a meditation to heighten their responsiveness to the Force, but found it difficult to concentrate himself and let them go early. As soon as he got the chance, he returned to his bed to lay down and... he wanted to think—that tended to be what he did with most of his spare time—but he found he couldn’t follow one train of thought for more than a few heartbeats. At other moments his head felt completely empty, incapable of forming a thought at all.

It was during one of these moments that he tuned in to the small holo-screen mounted to the wall in his room. FE was hosting her annual _Night with a Victor_ , a rare chance for the audience to catch up with previous champions of the Games. Kylo sat up a bit in bed when he realized who this year’s guest was.

“What a delightful surprise it is to have you here with us on Starkiller Base!”

“I wish I could say I was happy to be back in this murderous shithole, FE,” said Poe Dameron, flashing a smile so blindingly white that it hypnotized the audience into erupting with laughter. They sounded so utterly _gleeful_ it was hard to believe they’d understood the words he’d said.

“Oh, my! Poe, you are just as charming as the day you left us. I am absolutely chuffed that you were able to make it to your five-year anniversary.”

“Honestly, FE, I’m surprised they let me back in here,” said Poe, and the audience lost it once again.

Kylo had to admit he was surprised, too. Poe’s victory had not been the First Order’s brightest day. The mouthy sixteen-year-old from Yavin 4 was not the champion anyone had been expecting. In fact, Poe’s behavior during training had been so incredibly incendiary that there had been _three_ poorly disguised missions by the gamemakers to assassinate him once he made it to the arena. But Poe had proven harder to kill than any of the genetically modified abominations the gamemakers set on him and he quickly became a fan favorite. The First Order was forced to back down and side with the people's champion. The verbiage of “eliminating the last of the Rebel scum” fell out of favor after assassination attempt #3 failed, and the next morning Poe was being marketed by the First Order as “proof of the ingenuity in our galaxy’s young.”

“Now, won’t you tell us what a bright young man like yourself has been up to after your fantastic accomplishment?” FE cooed. Even droids, it seemed, were not immune to Poe’s charms.

“Oh, I don’t know that I would call my win fantastic, FE,” Poe said. This drew a sympathetic _aww_ from the audience.

“And why’s that, Poe? Don’t sell yourself short, darling!”

“Because I don’t consider killing children an accomplishment, FE.”

A hush fell over the crowd, but Poe remained relentlessly upbeat.

He went on. “Not compared to what I’m doing now in the service of our excellent First Order, at least.”

FE was all too eager to move on. “Oh, marvelous! Tell us about that! Have you been flying?”

The event that had tipped the scales in Poe’s favor during his Games was the introduction of an unmanned cargo ship into the arena. As in years past, it was sent to deliver a second round of food, supplies, and ammunition. The restocking (more commonly referred to by its morbid nickname, “The Feast”), was a turning point in the late stages of most Games. Its goal was to draw the remaining tributes, starving and desperate after many long days of competition, to the center of the arena once more, forcing everyone out of hiding. Poe, seemingly unbothered by his own hunger, had been the only tribute who made for the _front_ of the ship when it landed… and subsequently hijacked its controls.

That had been the last time ships of any kind were introduced to the arena.

“No, no,” Poe said with a slight chuckle. “I’ve done my fair share of flying for the First Order, I think.”

After Poe’s win, the First Order announced some vague “administrative changes.” Ren was appointed head Gamemaker immediately afterward.

“No, I’ve been on a victory tour, of sorts.” Poe leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. Compared to FE’s previous guests on _Night with a Victor_ , he looked _good_ : his full head of glossy curls remained intact, he had gained a healthy amount of muscle in the five years since his victory, and his eyes sparkled as much as his teeth. Most champions of the Games were not so lucky. It was not uncommon for them to sit in front of FE heavily made-up to cover the bags under their eyes, teeth chattering from drug withdrawal.

“A victory tour? From your Games?” urged FE.

“You could say that, FE. I’ve been all across the galaxy the past five years.”

“And where have you been?”

“Wherever the First Order sends me. Isn’t that delightful? I thought winning the Games would leave me to live the rest of my life in peace, but it turns out I’m more useful to the First Order as a commodity than I ever was as a citizen. So now I just get sent to the highest bidder, no matter how perverse their plans for me, and—”

Static.

  
Kylo didn’t bother checking the reception on his holo-screen; he knew the First Order well enough to assume that the difficulties on the opposite side of Starkiller Base were anything but technical. Whoever allowed Poe to say that much—even if Kylo wasn’t sure exactly what he’d been talking about—was surely about to lose their job. And, quite possibly, their head.

The static was downright _annoying._ It sounded too much like the inside of his fried mind for Kylo to bear. He was standing up to turn off the screen when—

“Citizens of the galaxy!”

Someone had managed to take advantage of the First Order’s downtime and patch into their audio feed. The voice cutting in was slightly muffled by static, but the words were clear as day, spoken in perfect Basic.

“You must not accept this as your fate! For too long the First Order has stolen our children, massacred our people, and killed our spirits. Please know that all is not lost!”

Kylo sank to his knees. Some part of him knew he should be paying attention. He should be outraged at this blatant act of treason and prepared to discuss it with his professors and the gamemakers tomorrow. He knew this might mean war, that he might be stripped of his mentor assignment and sent to fight instead. He should be readying the Knights, but… he could focus on none of it. The room was spinning, his stomach churned, his skin was suddenly burning under his clothes, the Force was ripping him apart from inside, he had the worst headache of his life, he was dying, surely this was the end—

—“The strength of the Resistance grows each day. We must not despair, but ready ourselves to fight.”

Each word grated at Kylo’s ears like knives on metal. He was in _pain_ , so much pain, he would do anything to make the voice stop, something was running down his face and out of his mouth and he wasn’t sure if he was sweating or crying or spitting or maybe all three, his palms were so tightly pressed against his ears that the heels of his hands began to dig into the base of his skull but he could still hear it, he had to make it stop—

—“Hope lives!”

The transmission ended.

Kylo collapsed into a fetal position on the cold ground beside his bed. He hit his head on the way down, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that the voice had stopped. Time passed. His breathing finally began to slow. More time. The ringing in his ears subsided. More. The throb inside of his head eased enough to allow him to return to his mind.

It was like a leak had sprouted in a dam. The hole that had been bored into his memory was harmless and easily patched, but the sheer weight and power behind it was astounding. Incapacitating. He’d known he’d been holding back, repressing things, but this _much_?

All of this pain, _so much_ pain, a tidal wave of it, ready to swallow him at any time.

All of his meditations, all of his practice with the Force, seemingly useless against it.

All because, for the first time in ten years, Kylo had heard his mother’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENTER POENICK ODAIR STAGE LEFT!!!! King of hamming it up in order to commit treason on stage in front an unsuspecting audience!!
> 
> There's something strange afoot... is it from the chaotic mind of:  
> A) George Lucas  
> B) Suzanne Collins  
> C) Me  
> D) All of the above?
> 
> Also yes Kylo has a female friend who cares about him in this fic and I don't care if he and Siv never interacted in canon I just know that this boy attracts women who love troubled men like honey attracts flies so you just KNOW he would have had a queer woman best friend in high school sorry but it's true 
> 
> **Content Warnings, Expanded**  
>  The mind-reading scene is almost a direct rip from the TFA script where Kylo is interrogating Rey (because that dialogue and those power dynamics WHEW), but as it turns out when you try to describe that scene in writing the language gets a little... rape-y. Fear not, Kylo is too dumb to understand the darker sexual innuendo when he does it, feels appropriate remorse, and will surely get the ass kicking from Rey he deserves A$AP Rocky.
> 
> The allusion to forced prostitution is a key part of Finnick's storyline in the Hunger Games and is integral in his joining the rebellion against the Capitol. I kept it in this AU because I think it's a key detail in getting people to understand that the Capitol/First Order's abuse of children runs deeper and darker than the Games themselves. That said, I don't plan to describe this part of Poe-as-Finnick's past in any more detail than I did here, and if it comes up again I'll add CWs accordingly.
> 
>  **SW References**  
>  Benjamin Solo is a confirmed Massive Dork and does actually [prefer pen and paper](https://twitter.com/sithadora/status/1274434896275148800).  
> [Caf](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Caf).  
> [Basic](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Galactic_Basic).
> 
>  **THG References**  
>  In TBOSAS, the mentors were also assigned surveys to complete with their tributes.  
> [The Feast](https://thehungergames.fandom.com/wiki/Feasts).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the week delay in getting this chapter out—I do my best writing on weekends and I missed one because of That American Holiday That We Shouldn’t Really Celebrate Anymore. But we’re back! Today’s update sponsored by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/kexingzishu/status/1272085864181452802). Things are about to get sweaty and angsty y’all 🥵
> 
> **Content Warning for this Chapter**  
>  Nothing just lots of hormones

IV.

Kylo never imagined so many of his problems could be solved by an overt act of treason. As it turned out, the Resistance’s message was just the distraction the other mentors needed to forget about his literally sweeping Rey off of her feet. What’s more, Snoke was far too busy dealing with the fallout to pay any extra attention to Kylo and his Force-wielding troublemaker, and if anyone _besides_ Snoke had recognized the voice on the broadcast, no one brought it up with him. While the rest of the First Order sprang into action, Kylo quietly buried his memory of _whatever_ had happened to him last night back down deep with the rest of his childhood.

The combination of Rey and his mother had done a real number on his head. Despite the threat of war, he’d fallen into one of the longest, deepest sleeps of his life after Sunday’s second mental catastrophe. The next morning, he found himself to be one of the most alert and oriented mentors.

“Do you think they’ll ship us out?” whispered Griss.

“I don’t think so. They can’t cancel the Games,” said Engell.

“They _won’t_ cancel the Games,” corrected Mitaka. “That would be the weakest possible move.”

“Well, obviously the Games are happening, but where do we play into that? I think that’s what Griss is saying,” Torben replied.

The First Order had acted quickly. Small fleets had been deployed to each planet that had participated in the Reaping that year, since they were the most likely to revolt, and larger squadrons had been sent to track down the source of the Resistance’s broadcast. All of it was heavily publicized, and poor FE was stuck in front of her teleprompter for twelve hours straight after the holo-cast came back online. No one was sure what had become of Poe Dameron.

A gamemaker appeared in the great hall as their breakfast dishes were being cleared away and announced that the mentorship program would continue as planned, but that the students should be prepared for an increased media presence.

Kylo felt his last bite of Bespin breakfast bar catch in his throat. _Great_. Being filmed more was just what he needed. Sooner or later they’d catch him getting his ass handed to him by Rey on live holo-vision. With more camera lenses and eyes watching them, every action was subject to intensified scrutiny. And Ren was lurking underneath it all, waiting for one of the mentors or their tributes to step out of line, jaws open. Kylo wondered how easy it would be to hitch a ride on one of the departing warships and leave this whole mess behind, instead.

Thankfully, the first day of training was set to go on without camera crews present. Presumably, the First Order still had enough anti-Resistance material on hand to last them at least another day of airtime.

Kylo almost hoped that Rey would still be in the medical bay, but he supposed he would have to talk to her again eventually, and that he might as well get it over with today. Besides, the doctors had seemed positively eager to get her off of their hands. And as he and the other mentors filed into the tribute training center, yes, there she was, arms crossed tightly over her First Order-issue uniform, flanked by two armed troopers, looking as murderous as ever.

Kylo thought black and red suited her rather well.

“Good morning,” he said stiffly.

“Malevolent snake,” she spat back.

The troopers beside her took a step closer.

“It’s fine.” Kylo waved them off and ignored her comment. He wouldn’t let himself get mad. Not yet. “How are you feeling today?”

And he did, genuinely, want to know. He _needed_ to know, actually. Had she felt the same explosive energy he had when the Force connected them? Had she been reeling in its wake, too?

But, of course, he’d have to work much harder than that to get a satisfactory answer from Rey.

“Like you care.”

“I do, actually.” He moved closer to her. She was much cleaner than she had been yesterday. Her hair was put back neatly into three buns, and it appeared some of what he thought were freckles had actually just been dirt. She smelled rather nice, too. “I told you. We’re a team. I’m going to make you the best competitor you can be.”

“Fatten me up for the slaughter. Right.”

“No,” he said evenly. “Toughen you up to do the slaughtering.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Who says I’m not tough already?”

“Not me. I know you’re tough. You proved it to me yesterday.”

She didn’t respond right away and dropped her eyes for a split second, which was just enough to make Kylo consider that maybe, possibly, she’d also been thinking about the seismic bond they’d forged yesterday.

“Don’t be scared,” he murmured, taking another step forward so that he was close enough to feel her breath. Even now, he could still _perceive_ her. She was physically right in front of him, yes, but he also _sensed_ her, deep green and crackling with energy, on another plane entirely. The closer he got, the more intense the sensation became. It was intoxicating, the way he could almost taste her. “I felt it, too.”

She looked up at him, mouth slightly open, as if she were about to say something and it had escaped her. He knew the feeling. Stars, but she had beautiful eyes. They seemed to be the source of that dark green energy, he wanted to dive in, dig deeper…

One of the stormtroopers cleared their throat.

Kylo jumped and quickly shuffled backward toward neutral ground. He felt the color in his face rise. He glanced around furtively, but none of his classmates seemed to have noticed. _Good_. That would have ruined his day of peace. He’d talk about this with her, he wanted to, but not here.

“What’s your weapon of choice?” he blurted.

“What?”

“Today’s the first day of training. I’m training you.”

She raised her eyebrows at him again. “Is that what you call this?”

He fully blushed. What was she _doing_ to him? “Well, we haven’t started _yet_.”

“Hmm.”

The training center, much like the gamemakers’ headquarters, was massive and garnished with heaps of the First Order’s cutting-edge tech. What had started as a small gym in the early days of the Games had quickly become a sprawling landscape of training stations, each designed to hone a useful skill: fire-starting, knot-tying, swimming. There were even individual pods the size of his sleeping quarters that could be climate-controlled to match any foreseeable arena environment. And, of course, there were weapons. Plenty of weapons. Statistically, tributes were more likely to die from thirst or exposure, but most of the mentors jumped right in to weapons training. It was mostly a show of force to intimidate the other mentor-tribute teams, but there was something to be said for perfecting a tribute’s combat skills: the day before the Games were set to begin, each tribute would appear before a panel of gamemakers and showcase their talents using the equipment in the training center. The gamemakers would then score each tribute’s competitiveness on a scale from 1 to 12, and afterward the betting and sponsorship offers would begin in earnest.

Most of his classmates had already led their tributes to one of the training mats surrounding the weapons station. Kylo gestured vaguely at them. “And we’ll start now. What’s your weapon?”

Rey crossed her arms more tightly over her chest and shrugged. “A blaster, I guess.”

“None of those. Second choice?”

Blasters and other firearms were banned from the arena, presumably because hand-to-hand combat made for much more exciting deaths.

“I mostly use a quarterstaff at home. Don’t make that face at me.”

“I wasn’t making a face,” Kylo snapped, but he _was_ worried. He hadn’t dared call her bluff before, but he doubted she’d ever gotten her hands on a blaster back on Jakku, let alone fired one. He’d at least hoped she’d been using something with a blade out there in the desert. “You never used anything… deadlier?”

“No,” she huffed, “and I don’t need to.”

“I can teach you how to use any of these things.” He gestured to the wall of maces and tridents that was already being picked clean by his classmates and their tributes.

“I don’t need you to teach me shit.” 

“You’re about to fight all of these bloodthirsty animals to the death and you’re going to limit yourself to a fucking stick?”

“Watch me,” she hissed.

“Fine,” Kylo said smoothly. He used the Force to rip the lone quarterstaff off of the weapons wall, nearly decapitating Vonreg as it whipped through the training center.

“Watch it! Fuck you, Kylo!” Vonreg yelled.

Rey, on the other hand, was unphased. She snatched the staff out of the air an arm’s length from her nose and gave it a quick one-handed spin for good measure.

Kylo felt something twinge in his lower abdomen and hurriedly selected something off of the wall for himself as a distraction. He summoned a vibro-lance. Like all electrical weaponry in the training center, it was programmed to do little more than stun his opponent, but he hoped it might at least encourage Rey to consider a stick with more lethal enhancements.

He made his way over to the first available training mat, not bothering to check if Rey was following him. She clearly wanted to whack him over the head like a grub toad, and he figured turning his back to her was as tantalizing an opportunity as any.

Sure enough, he whipped around to find her just _one_ step too close.

“You won’t get me that easily,” he chided.

Rey gave him a look that confirmed his suspicion that she wanted to see his brains splattered against the wall behind them.

He ignored her, instead striding to the middle of the mat and adopting the stance he’d taken with his Knights during Friday training. “Try to strike me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? No pretentious lesson about the inferiority of staffs as weapons?”

“This _is_ the lesson. Come on.” He raised his vibro-lance into battle position and waited.

Much unlike his Knights, Rey was all too eager to charge him. And she was quick—he almost didn’t block her first strike, a vicious overhead swipe that made him wish he’d worn his helmet.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she was already lunging again, this time swinging at his knees. He stepped out of the way in the nick of time, sending her stumbling with the rest of her forward momentum, and used this extra second to shake off his shock. She was nothing like his Knights, he realized—she had nothing to lose. She wasn’t afraid to hit him. She wasn’t afraid _of_ him.

Rey was not easily deterred. In fact, every blocked blow and missed swing only made her come after him harder and faster. She never slowed down, even when she broke into a sweat, even when he caught the tip of one of her buns with his lance. She was a tiny little tornado ripping around him in all directions, occasionally sending out well-calculated swings of her staff at his shoulders, his stomach, his neck. He blocked them all, but only just. He was never focused enough to attempt tapping into her well-guarded mind because she was always underfoot, always working toward her next move.

She was like no one Kylo had ever fought—he’d sparred with his classmates plenty of times, but they’d all been trained by the First Order. By eighteen, Kylo had memorized his classmates’ fighting styles, each of them perfectly predictable combinations of the seven Forms they’d trained in for years. But Rey was a mystery. It was clear she wouldn’t be able to tell Shii-Cho from Juyo, but it didn’t matter. Alone in the desert, she had developed her own fighting style and nourished it with the Force, and it worked: the layer of dense fog barring him from her mind prevented him from guessing at her next move until it had already happened.

This was not a robotic, practiced fight like he was accustomed to having with the Knights. Kylo’s mind drank in all of Rey’s tactics like a hungry animal. He realized he’d been starving for something this physically and intellectually stimulating, this unexpected. This was exhilarating. There was nothing else in the galaxy besides himself, his lance, a staff, and the sweating, swearing, tiny thing wielding it. Kylo thought he might even be having _fun_.

There was a scream from somewhere deep inside the training center, and Kylo felt himself come crashing back down from his high. Rey started, too, which gave Kylo just enough leeway to swing his lance into her retreating calf.

“Ow! Fucker!” she leapt away from him and grabbed her leg in one hand, panting.

“Never take your eyes off of your opponent.” Kylo laid down his lance, satisfied that he’d won but, more importantly, needing a minute to rest. He put his hands to his knees and heaved. He was vaguely aware of the fallout of the scream, which involved some medical troopers rushing onto the scene and some shouts about a knife accident from the surrounding training stations.

Then something hard whacked him on the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Never take your eyes off of your opponent.”

Even with his hands on his knees, he could tell Rey was standing over him, staff still in hand.

“What’s the matter, did this little desert rat tire you out already? You didn’t think this would end after _you_ won, did you?”

Kylo straightened up, still breathing heavy, although he feared he might stop breathing altogether when he faced Rey again. She’d thrown her long-sleeved training shirt unceremoniously to the ground and stood before him in only her leggings and a simple black undergarment that exposed her stomach, which was about seven shades paler than her arms and face but perfectly toned and tantalizingly curved. Her outfit—or what was left of it—stuck to her like glue. All of the blood he’d worked so hard to return to his head rushed directly into his pants.

She looked at him blankly and gave him another _thwack_ with her staff. “Did I break you? Stand up. Let’s go!”

⁂

They sparred for hours.

Kylo had had conversations with Rey, albeit heated ones. He’d filled out (almost) an entire survey about her. Kriff, he’d even been inside her head. But when they were fighting, Kylo finally began to understand her.

Fighting was easier than talking. Fighting was easier than apologizing to her for barging into her head, easier than screaming at her to shut up and listen to him because he was just trying to help her, damn it. And for her part, Rey _definitely_ still hated him for knocking her out and reading her mind. Kylo knew she resented him for being the last person she’d really be able to talk to before entering the arena. It was easier for both of them, then, to fight instead.

When he finally trained his mind to focus his gaze on her eyes and her feet and nothing in between, they set into a rhythm. He began to coach her like one of his Knights, giving pieces of advice here and suggestions there. He found that nothing that he _demanded_ from her flew, but that she internalized anything he presented as a statement of fact. She was a quick learner and extremely adaptable. She had an excellent memory for the attack patterns he described, and her reflexes were sharp as rancor nails, undoubtedly helped by her strong connection to the Force. She was persistent, but patient where it mattered. And she was _angry_.

With each passing minute, it became clear that Rey’s combativeness—against the stormtroopers who’d lugged her off the ship, against the doctors in the medical bay, against Kylo—was not a reactive outburst against her recent misfortune, but rather something constant and ferocious that burned inside her. The few times she successfully hit Kylo, he saw that now-familiar glint of something dangerous in her eyes and became overwhelmed by the fiery orange energy that exuded from her. It only lasted for a few seconds after her victories, when she was standing over him with her chest heaving and her nose curled, but it was enough. Just that glimpse was all he needed to see her rage.

He recognized it because he saw himself in it. And it was terrifying, to see all that he felt inside of him, constantly clawing against his ribcage in a desperate attempt to escape, trapped inside someone else.

In many ways, it made sense. It was undoubtedly the reason the Force had connected them when they pitted their minds against each other yesterday: they drew from the Force at exactly the same wavelength, causing both of their signals to amplify one another’s. Which had to mean, Kylo figured, Rey’s anger was the source of that energy, that power she’d awoken within him.

He had to draw it out of her. He needed to feel it again.

He landed a blow on her shoulder with the shaft of the lance, but this time she barely winced. She only stepped back and waited for their next bout to begin.

“You’re angry,” he goaded.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I see it. I feel it. Why bother hiding it?” He drew his lance toward him again and they began their dance, pacing around each other, a ritual still so new but already well-practiced.

“Being angry’s never gotten me anywhere.” She blocked his first prod of the lance.

“Surely that’s not true.”

“It is. It’s only ever gotten me into trouble.”

He didn’t doubt that. “That doesn’t mean you never feel it, though.” He unleashed a quick flurry of jabs at her, trying to make her collapse into a defensive position.

She brushed them off easily, maintaining her offensive stance. “So what if I do?”

“Your anger is power, Rey.”

“It’s not.” She widened her stance and clipped the edge of his retreating kneecap with a long, sweeping strike.

_Clang_. He caught the middle of her staff where the tip of the lance met the shaft. “It is. Just listen to yourself. You fucking hate me. Don’t pretend that’s not making you a better fighter than you would be otherwise.”

“If you’re trying to _make_ me angry, it’s not going to work.” She jerked her weapon out from underneath his.

“Oh?”

“It’s _not_ ,” she spat. Rather angrily.

He brought his lance down and she blocked it inches from her neck. Their eyes met over the cross formed by their weapons. “Don’t you want to know?” he hissed.

“Know what?”

“What happened between us yesterday? Don’t you want to understand it?”

Rey’s eyes widened but she didn’t loosen her grip, keeping her staff locked against the lance and her face trained on his.

“I know you felt it, too,” he snarled. “Don’t you want to feel that power again? Don’t you want to let yourself give into the anger? To see what we could do together?”

“With you?” she shoved him back with a sudden jerk of her staff and leapt away. “Never.”

He regained his footing easily and surveyed her. “Then what do you want?”

“All I want,” she seethed, “is to win these fucking Games and go home.”

“Don’t tell me you miss that desert shithole.” He was back in her space again, ready to push and prod until he got her where he wanted her.

“I don’t,” she snapped.

“Then why do you want to go back?”

“I…” she faltered, letting her staff sag somewhat in her hands.

_This_ was not what he’d wanted. One of the fires inside her had sputtered out. He had to get her angry again, somehow. He was an addict chasing a high, trying desperately to attain the same clarity he’d had after their talk in the medical bay.

He took advantage of her moment of weakness and swiped at her, knocking her to the ground. “Tell me.”

There it was. There was the fire. She surged up at him but he hit her away, sending her sprawling onto her back.

And… he couldn’t help himself. He needed to feel it again, just for a second, no matter what it took… “Whoever you’re waiting for,” he hissed, prying open the curtain of her thoughts _just_ enough, “they’re not coming back.”

For just a second, he had it, that blindingly painful clarity he’d been seeking—

He could have sworn Rey’s eyes turned black. Instead of leaping to her feet, she launched herself forward, barreling into his knees and sending him reeling backward until _he_ was the one on his back, fingers scrambling against the staff pressed to his throat.

The screaming crimson of her energy signature was nothing compared to the look on her face. He’d crossed a line. Said something unthinkable.

“Rey—” he choked, but she pressed her staff down harder onto his windpipe.

This time, she didn’t resist when one of the nearby troopers tackled her off of him.

“Dude!” Hask laughed, and Kylo realized nearly half of his class had gathered around he and Rey’s training station. There were no tributes left in the gym. He must have missed an announcement.

Opan was whistling and there was a volley of clapping, too, but all Kylo could do was stagger to his feet and watch Rey as she threw her staff to the ground and walked out of the training center without sparing so much as a backward glance, hurriedly followed by three troopers.

"She almost choked you out,” reported Mitaka. 

“Not bad for a girl,” said Shay.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” growled Phasma and Kanida at the same time.

“Come on, guys. We’re supposed to be reporting to lunch, anyway,” Maso moaned. Kylo had never liked her quite as much as he did just then.

“Oh, man, you messed _up_. What the fuck did you _say_ to her, dude? She break up with you?” Hux sneered at him, looming in Kylo’s face as the rest of the students began to file out of the gym.

The anger Kylo had summoned in himself when trying to draw it out of Rey, the guilt he felt for pushing her too far, the frustration with himself for not feeling guilty _enough_ , the pulsation in the Force that signaled the beginnings of the connection he and Rey had built yesterday—all of it exploded in Hux’s face.

He let his lance fall to the ground and punched. He heard a sickening crack of bone and felt hot blood between his knuckles. It was good, but not enough. He followed Hux to the ground, grabbing him by the collar, and hit him again and again and _again_. It took the combined forces of Shay and Opan, who’d turned around at the sound of Hux’s screams, to tear him away. They yanked him to his feet as Hux stumbled away.

Phasma appeared in his vision and slapped him—hard—across the face. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you, Solo?”

He let his eyes flutter closed and exhaled. The strike almost felt good. In fact, having his arms folded behind his back brought him a strange sense of peace. Restrained, he couldn’t hurt anyone. Not Hux, not himself, not Rey. In that moment, he didn’t have to be in charge of himself, to take responsibility for the anger that was suffocating him. He was disarmed; neutralized.

It felt amazing.

⁂

Thankfully for him, the First Order had bigger burra fish to fry than a trigger-happy group of Academy mentors. The stormtroopers had left the training gym with the last tribute, and the only evidence of any sort of altercation was Hux’s _very_ broken nose.

Hux, the self-serving snake he was, took every chance he got to blame Kylo for the incident, but no one in the medical bay had reason to care, and every higher-level officer was occupied with anti-Resistance military measures. The fight hadn’t happened on camera or involved a tribute, so it was of no interest to Ren. Which—thank the Stars—left Hux with very few avenues for retribution, save for another fistfight. And Kylo sincerely doubted Hux would go for that.

No, he was not much concerned with Hux at all, and most of his classmates seemed to share the same apathy. Hux had had it coming for a while.

The biggest loss of that day turned out to be Rey.

When the tributes filed back into the gym for evening training, she refused to speak to him. Not even in the short, spiny jabs she’d been humoring him with before. She just… stood there, arms crossed over her chest, stony-faced. The troopers set to guard her remained much closer than they had this morning. Kylo wondered if she’d gotten into any trouble. He hoped they hadn’t hurt her.

“I think we’ve had enough combat training for the day. How are you on survival skills?”

He’d hoped this at least would get her talking. She’d grown up in the desert, for Kriff’s sake, and could undoubtedly be teaching _him_ a thing or two about survival. But instead she glowered, unspeaking, the warm haze of her energy signature he’d been getting used to now almost undetectable.

She had closed herself off to him, and not in the way she’d been doing before, which had been effortful, hate-fueled. This new wall he came up against was made from the _absence_ of something he couldn’t quite name. Kylo felt his intestines twist uncomfortably. 

“Knot tying? Trap setting?” he ventured.

Stony silence.

“You’d prefer I take the lead, then?” If this didn’t get to speak, nothing would.

It didn’t.

Kylo found that Rey would follow him when he moved between the non-weapon stations. She would follow his instructions beautifully, copying the knots he tied perfectly on her first try. But she would not speak to him. She would drop her glance when he tried to make eye contact. She wouldn’t even nod when he asked if she understood something.

Maybe it was the fact that he’d beaten Hux’s face into a pulp a few hours earlier, but Kylo couldn’t find it in himself to get _mad_ at Rey for her sudden sullenness. No, he was feeling something else entirely: a sense of unease at the pit of his stomach; a tugging sensation in his chest; a flush of hot blood in his cheeks. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

So he ignored it and spoke to her as if she was one of his Knights, short and plain, not mincing words or holding back on his criticisms. This came naturally to him. He could be her mentor. He didn’t need to be her friend.

Rey excelled at every task he placed in front of her but never once cracked a smile. She seemed to have retreated somewhere deep within herself. With the announcement that training time had run out, she dropped the rope she was holding and left without sparing him so much as a glance.

He stood, unmoving, as he watched her leave, staring until she disappeared around the corner of the training center hallway. Part of him, deep down—the same part that suddenly yearned to feel her in the Force again—knew that Rey never came back after what he’d said that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kylo Ren confirmed fuckboy send tweet  
> The venn diagram of this boy and taking responsibility for his own actions is two separate circles
> 
>  **SW References**  
> [Rey’s quarterstaff](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Rey's_quarterstaff).  
> [Vibro-lance](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Vibro-lance).  
> [The Seven Forms](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Lightsaber_combat/Legends) came from the Jedi order but I feel like post-Empire they would have been common knowledge to most masters of the Force.  
> [Grub toads](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Grub_toad), [burra fish](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Burra_fish), and [rancors](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Rancor), oh my! ("Bigger burra fish to fry" and "sharper than rancor nails" are [canonical expressions](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/List_of_phrases_and_slang) which I've always thought were adorable)
> 
>  **THG References**  
>  The costume designers for the movies popped off with the [training outfits](https://www.instyle.com/news/stores-now-hunger-games-training-outfits)


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